


Mr Pettigrew Lives for a Day

by altocello, harlequin (julie)



Category: Merlin (TV), Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:19:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 32,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altocello/pseuds/altocello, https://archiveofourown.org/users/julie/pseuds/harlequin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world-worn Mr Pettigrew has only one ambition in life, and that is to be a gentleman’s gentleman. Having just been summarily dismissed from his current post, down to his last pennies – and with another Great War looming over London – even this modest goal now seems far beyond his reach. At his lowest ebb, he grasps at an opportunity – and suddenly the shabby yet proper old man finds himself awhirl amidst the glamorous immoral world of beautiful nightclub singer Sir Arthur Pendragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 8:00 am

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's notes:** This all grew out of my love for the wonderful film _Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day_ (2008), starring Frances McDormand as Miss Pettigrew and Amy Adams as Delysia. It is an utterly charming and delightful film, with a terrific friendship between the two women, and an acknowledgement of the importance of ambition as well as love. I feel the film deserves to be far more widely known and celebrated.
> 
> Watching the film led me to the novel of the same name by Winifred Watson, published in 1938, on which the film was based. There are some aspects of the novel which are, alas, a result of its time - such as a couple of instances of casual racism. However, that caveat aside, it is a genuinely refreshing and original tale.
> 
> This story draws directly on the film, along with its deleted scenes, and also draws on the book. The most significant change I made regarding the film was to bring the timeline back into a 24-hour period, as the book does. I didn't go quite so far as to title my chapters _9.15 a.m. - 11.11 a.m._ and so on, but you get the idea! I also followed one of the couples a little further into their happy ending.
> 
> I replaced the eight most significant _Pettigrew_ characters with eight of our beloved _Merlin_ characters, with a few consequent changes in gender and sexuality. Guinevere and Lancelot are mentioned, but don't appear in the story. All the other characters are from the _Pettigrew_ universe. I threaded in some _Merlin_ -related and sexuality-related notions, but generally if you've seen the film, you'll find much in here to be familiar! I hope you'll still find it worth reading.
> 
> One of the strengths of the film is the glorious use of music. In particular, there is a piece called _Miss Pettigrew's Waltz_. This is played in a nightclub by a blues band. The composer did the impossible of marrying the 4/4 blues with the 3/4 waltz by adding in what altocello refers to as a grace note. So the waltz goes 'ONE two-and-three, ONE two-and-three', which I have conveyed with a 'Mmm da-da-da'. Of course, as you can tell from her name, altocello is a much bigger musical geek than either I or the relevant character, so she can tell you why the reality is a little more complicated than that. But I trust this explanation will suffice!
> 
> **Artist's notes:** I must, again, thank the village of fandom for helping me get these done. I really and truly couldn't do this without you! Firstly, so many thanks are due to **slashweaver** for providing the inspiration for these pieces; there really are no words, my dear, to express how much I enjoy working with you, and I can only hope that the art begins to show my appreciation. Someday I will get to give you a hug in person; it will be longer and tighter than is appropriate in public, I won't care, and it will only just begin to express how much I have enjoyed working with you. ♥ Please always remember that I would draw for you ANY time.
> 
> I also owe hugely huge thanks to my beta, **amphigoury** , and to all my cheerleaders in the **#paperlegends** chat (you all know who you are :D). Thank you all for being there when I was stuck and needed to be unstuck, especially when I inexplicably, accidentally, drew Bruce Campbell.
> 
> And last, but not least, huge thanks are due to **the_muppet** for doing the incredible and keeping this ship sailing by herself. You are amazing!

[](http://fc03.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2013/175/1/8/clock_break_0800_by_altocello-d6ah8ti.jpg)

## London, late August 1939

Mr Pettigrew had only one ambition in life, and that was to be a gentleman’s gentleman. Yet he wasn’t qualified, he didn’t have the experience – save for one lost lovely golden season just before the Great War – and so he found himself shunted from one menial position to another. He made do as footman when he could get it – and when he couldn’t then he filled in as kitchen staff or house servant, nursemaid or some kind of untutored male governess, as each family dictated.

There were no fine establishments any more, Mr Pettigrew often mournfully reflected. There were no longer any proper gentlemen who needed a gentleman’s gentleman, and it had been that way since the finest young men of England went to die in Flanders Fields, and the world or what was left of it remade itself on such shabby terms. Thus Mr Pettigrew was doomed to play out with meagre means what might remain of this long, sadly purposeless life.

And it seemed that yet again Mr Pettigrew would be forced to find another position. His current employer, one Mrs Brummegan, had summoned him to the parlour at the unheard–of hour of eight in the morning. Mr Pettigrew had presented himself punctually, of course, despite the early hour. Early, yes, but (Mr Pettigrew noted with disapproval) obviously not too early for Mrs Brummegan to be seeking courage or consolation in a glass of sherry. None of this boded well.

“Mr P,” Mrs Brummegan began.

Mr Pettigrew _hated_ being called ‘Mr P’. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Mr P, I was warned of your stubbornness and impertinence, and I should have known better when you were called ‘the help of last resort’. But I had no idea of your utter unsuitability.”

“ _My_ unsuitability?” he protested – for he honestly thought that he was a cut above what the Brummegan establishment really merited, even though this had been one of those odd male–governess type of positions.

“How do I begin to explain?” Mrs Brummegan asked rhetorically. “Your grasp of long division appears… shaky at best, and Gerald can recite the kings and queens of England a full twenty–four seconds faster than you!”

“I wasn’t aware speed was an important matter.”

“Not important?” she spluttered. “ _Not_ important! _He’s_ on Edward the Seventh, and _you’re_ still blundering about in the Henrys. It’s a recipe for chaos! I don’t know what I was thinking, entrusting my children to someone with your… your _hair_!”

Mr Pettigrew managed not to take a step back, but he lifted a hand to his hair, which was thick and white and admittedly at times rather untameable. He had indulged himself a little, it was true, in growing it out, but as he always wore it in a neat queue when in company, he really didn’t see why –

“Do you know,” Mrs Brummegan was remorselessly forging on, “Mrs Benjamin’s governess thought you were a _tramp_ trying to steal my children. Have you not _heard_ of the hairbrush? _Hair_ , Mr Pettigrew. _Hair_.”

“But –”

“You are dismissed.”

“But, Mrs Brummegan… if you allowed me to perform to my full range of capabilities – I suspect my true talents may lie elsewhere – Perhaps if I might be allowed to take care of your husband rather than your children –”

“Away!”

Unfortunately, Mr Pettigrew was forced to reflect, while he might be a cut above the Brummegans of this poor world, the Brummegan household was at least a cut above living on the streets. “If you would allow me one last chance… in _any_ capacity…”

“Goodbye, Mr P!” Mrs Brummegan underlined the finality of this farewell by downing a rather large swig of sherry.

“I'm owed a week's wages,” he tried. Even Mr Pettigrew knew he sounded completely pathetic by this point.

There was no response, and Mr Pettigrew momentarily lost his nerve. Perhaps, after all, it would be more appropriate for the employment agency to pursue such matters. He offered a slight nod for propriety’s sake, turned on his heel, and walked to the door.

In the hallway he found that odious man–of–all–work Marvin waiting with Mr Pettigrew’s hat and coat, and his old suitcase already packed. The three items were thrust at him, and Mr Pettigrew found himself in the rather humiliating situation of being escorted to the door. How insulting that they thought he might wreak havoc on the way out… Really, such a thing would be beneath him. He tried to think of a superior retort, but the words failed to come clear – and a moment later he was walking down the steps to the street, and the Brummegans’ front door was being closed none too gently behind him.

Mr Pettigrew looked up the facade of the building to find Mrs Brummegan watching his eviction with petty sherry–fuelled delight. Really… _Nothing_ was beneath such a woman. Mr Pettigrew would count himself lucky to be free of her – if it weren’t for the fact that he was for all intents and purposes penniless. He possessed nothing more than the clean and pressed yet oft–darned clothes on his back, and the few items in his old suitcase which (like Mr Pettigrew himself, he feared) was starting to look just a little too ‘vintage’.

Mr Pettigrew turned, and headed off down the street in the direction of the employment agency. The early morning wind was bitterly cold, so as he went he quickly tugged on his bowler hat with one hand, and then shrugged himself into his threadbare coat and buttoned it up. It helped, a little. He couldn’t afford the bus, of course. But he could walk. He’d certainly walked such distances before. Mr Pettigrew put his head down, and strode on.

♦

What with turning his face from the wind and fretting over his employment opportunities or lack thereof, Mr Pettigrew really wasn’t watching where he was going. The pavement was clear before his feet, that was all he needed to see, there were no tree roots or uneven stones to trip him up, and he knew the way from here, he could almost walk this route blindfolded –

But as Mr Pettigrew crossed the road in front of the Barnsbury prison gates and gained the further pavement, he collided – hard – with someone converging from his left. The bowler hat blew off Mr Pettigrew’s head and tumbled off down the street, even as a young man’s voice cried, “Oh no! I’m so sorry! Are you all right?”

It was too late for care. Mr Pettigrew’s neat queue had come undone, and he could feel his hair blowing about his head like a dandelion in seed. And not only that: Mr Pettigrew’s suitcase had been jolted out of his arms and sprung apart, so that it was lying open right there on the street. His few possessions – oh, his worn–out outmoded underwear, God shield him – were exposed to the world’s judgement as the wind plucked out each of the items, displayed them for a moment, and then dismissively whisked them away. “Oh!” Mr Pettigrew cried, sinking down to his knees by the case, and reaching helplessly to try regathering – “My things! My things!”

“Let me help you with that,” said the young man, kneeling there beside him. Mr Pettigrew wasn’t quite so distraught that he didn’t notice the young man had lovely long pale fingers… Unfortunately he noticed them while those lovely fingers were clutching at a very unlovely pair of cotton boxer shorts that once used to be blue. “Oh dear!” the young man commented with wry amusement. “They’ll have me back in prison for this.”

“Oh!” Mr Pettigrew stood, already shaken and now absolutely shocked. It was one thing to be employed or more to the point fired by a woman who drank sherry at eight in the morning. It was quite another thing entirely to have one’s underwear clutched at by a criminal!

The young man was standing as well, and offering reassuringly, “Oh, it was nothing serious…” Mr Pettigrew had a moment in which to register a tall lean figure with wide shoulders, a mess of black hair contrasting with pale skin, exquisite cheekbones – and deep dark blue eyes as dangerous as the ocean. “Well,” the young man – the _convicted criminal_ was continuing, “when I say _serious_ , I…”

“No,” Mr Pettigrew managed to protest, taking a step back – and then another. It seemed that he himself was free of the criminal’s clutches, even if his shorts weren’t.

“Wait. Let me get your hat for you at least…” And somehow, even though Mr Pettigrew had seen his shabby old bowler hat gusting away down the street only moments before, it was now in the young man’s hands and being offered to Mr Pettigrew. It was unmistakeably his own hat. He recognised the shiny patches worn by too many years of careful brushing. And as if that wasn’t uncanny enough, the young man’s chagrined expression was completely undermined by a wicked glint in his eyes.

Bareheaded and empty–handed, Mr Pettigrew turned away and scurried off down the road. The wind tore a tear or two from his eyes.

“Wait!” the man cried.

Mr Pettigrew risked a glance back over his shoulder to see the man still standing there – now with Mr Pettigrew’s nightshirt and nightcap hanging limply from his other hand.

“Oh _please_ wait! Your… your belongings!”

But Mr Pettigrew had made good his escape. With heart pounding, he settled to a fast walk, head down against the oncoming wind. It must have been his imagination, but he thought he heard a softly genuine “Sorry!” called out from behind him.

♦

Of course there had been no chance of breakfast that morning, and it was a long time since last night’s supper, which was served early and parsimoniously in the Brummegan household. As Mr Pettigrew drew near Victoria railway station, he couldn’t help but notice a chestnut seller plying his wares, with a brazier steaming away on a barrow beside him. The scent of roasting chestnuts swirling through the chill morning air was heavenly…

“Thruppence a bag!” the man cried. “Hot sweet chestnuts! Thruppence a bag!”

Mr Pettigrew approached, and waited his turn, counting his change. Which task didn’t take him very long at all. “I was wondering…” he asked once he reached the barrow. “Do you do half bags?”

“No, Mister.” And he cried out again, “Thruppence a bag!”

“You see,” Mr Pettigrew ventured after a moment. “I have a bit of an appetite. Please?”

The man stared back at him flatly. “ _Three_ pence, or _no_ pence.”

Mr Pettigrew managed a polite smile, and walked away.

A little further on, however – tucked away under where a heavy iron bridge bore the trains through the air as they made their way south – Mr Pettigrew discovered an outdoor kitchen, helpfully labelled ‘Feeding the Hungry and Homeless’. A small queue had formed, as one by one the indigent were served. The indigent who looked, many of them, very little worse off than did Mr Pettigrew himself.

His stomach growled as the scent of fried sausages wafted over.

Well. It wasn’t that he hadn’t helped his parents in feeding the poor. He was a vicar’s son, after all. And his parents had told the poor time and again that there was no shame in their situation.

Besides. He was hungry.

Mr Pettigrew went to line up with the rest of the shameless unfortunates. Soon he had a plate which bore half a sausage, a piece of fried bread, and a small serving of baked beans. The scent and warmth of it rose into his face like a blessing. He wandered a short way off, with a fork in his hand, caring for little in that moment but the food. Everyone else was quietly occupied around him, whether in work or out of it, and there was a brief sense of peace and wellbeing.

Which was shattered by the bright shrieks and hard heels of a well–to–do group click–clacking down the stairs from the station platform high above. Young partygoers, obviously, only returning home now that the sun was up and the night was finally over. Mr Pettigrew watched them warily, almost as if they were foreign beings. Which they were, really, when compared to him. They mightn’t have seen their beds last night, but at least they had homes to go to. Mr Pettigrew had no idea where he would be laying his head that night. He took a small bite of sausage and chewed at it thoughtfully, but in that moment even the food left him inconsolable.

“Gerry?” one of the young women cried out in a shrill voice. “Morgana, if you can keep your hands off him for just _two_ seconds…”

The couple who’d been addressed had tottered their way past the waiting taxis, and towards the wall that bordered the kitchen. The man called back, “We’re getting our own cab, thank you.”

“That’s naughty!” the young woman replied, even as she and the others were borne away. And she was right, of course. For an unmarried couple to travel alone together in a taxi was most improper.

Not that this couple seemed to mind very much about being improper. The man had pushed his girlfriend up against the wall, and was presently mauling her throat. She, perhaps, was too tipsy to care either way, though she did seem to take some vague pleasure in his embrace. From what Mr Pettigrew could see of her, she – Morgana – was rather beautiful in an icily ladylike way, so perfectly coiffed and groomed, with black hair and pale skin, a slim figure and eyes sharp as glass.

Mr Pettigrew found himself watching, mostly appalled but maybe also just a little bit intrigued. No one had ever tried to maul Mr Pettigrew’s throat.

The woman noticed him watching, and stared back at him – and while she was careful to seem nothing but frostily disdainful, it appeared that her conscience still pricked a little. “Let’s get out of here, Gerry,” she said, pushing the man away with two firm hands. A moment later they’d turned the corner and had gone.

Mr Pettigrew was still watching, however, and failed to notice as – yet again! – a man collided with him – hard. His precious plate of hot breakfast spun out of his hands and ended up face down on the pavement, while Mr Pettigrew gazed down at it mournfully.

“Sorry,” the man offered, his hands out to amplify the apology. There was nothing very remarkable about this man, which was probably just as well. A moment later, he’d disappeared round the corner as well. And Mr Pettigrew was left hollow with hunger and battered by circumstance, standing there feeling quite unable to cope with anything more at all.

♦

The employment agency wouldn’t open until nine, so Mr Pettigrew slowly made his way into the train station, and sat on one of the narrow wooden benches in the waiting room. It wasn’t exactly warm there, but at least he was out of the bitter wind. A sturdy old man with a long white beard lay sprawled back along the next bench, fast asleep despite his precarious perch. Mr Pettigrew watched him for a while, wondering how many nights it took to get used to sleeping so uncomfortably. He might be finding out the answer to that question himself, he feared, and doing so the hard way.

There was a stall nearby that sold newspapers, snacks, and other necessary items. Mr Pettigrew watched desultorily as travellers bought apples or chocolate bars along with their newspapers, without giving such extra expenses a second thought, and then headed off with the chocolate hastily stowed in a coat pocket, perhaps to be forgotten.

The newspapers didn’t serve to cheer him, either. ‘IS THERE TO BE WAR?’ one hoarding asked, and a front–page headline announced ‘HITLER IN SESSION WITH WAR CHIEFS’. Mr Pettigrew swallowed, and looked away, unable to face the notion that the Great War hadn’t in the event ended all wars. What more sacrifice was needed before peace and plenty could return?

He tried not to think about the losses they might endure all over again.

In any case, Mr Pettigrew noted with some relief as his glance alighted on the station clocks, it was already ten to nine.

♦


	2. 9:00 am

Despite having only just opened for the day, Miss Holt’s Employment Agency was already bustling and bursting with efficiency. Typewriters clattered and telephones pealed. Miss Holt’s scheduled appointments had yet to begin, so she was available to see Mr Pettigrew immediately; he was shown into her office while his file was retrieved.

As she rejoined him, Miss Holt was reading from the file. “The Washburn family. Jane, aged five.”

“Lovely girl. She was quite attached to me.”

“You were the _under–footman_ ,” Miss Holt damningly reminded him. “Jane, aged five. Attired in her Sunday best on the occasion of a picnic in the woods…”

“She loves dressing up, that girl…”

“While you escorted her in top hat and tails. ‘Dress, shoes and coat ruined. Mother’s sapphire necklace lost.’”

“A loose clasp on the necklace… Quite unfortunate…”

“You had no business taking responsibility for that child and her belongings, Mr Pettigrew, but seeing as you did, you should have taken proper care. Then the Randle boys, John and Robin. ‘Wrestled retired Colonel Johnson to the floor outside Fortnum and Mason’s, shouting, “Nazi warmonger” because…’ and I quote, ‘Mr Pettigrew thought he was a German spy.’”

“A little joke,” he offered rather lamely.

Miss Holt continued in pointed tones, “‘Ambulance called. Police called.’ Yes. And now the Brummegans. Mr Pettigrew, we live in uncertain times. My goodness, there could be a war any day. Do you think that work is easy to find?”

“No, no. Certainly not, Miss Holt. And obviously we all have to make shift until the ideal position opens up. But in this latest case, Mrs Brummegan was… well, _fond of her sherry_ , if you take my meaning. As a vicar’s son, I found her rather difficult.”

“No, she found _you_ rather difficult, Mr Pettigrew. And that is, I’m afraid, a recurring theme.”

One of the female clerks approached from the office area. “Miss Holt?”

“Yes, Jilly?”

The clerk came in and handed Miss Holt a business card. “The Pendragon household rang last night. They’re still looking.”

“Thank you. Yes, I won’t be a moment.” Miss Holt placed the card on her desk by the telephone, ready to be dealt with next, and returned her attention to Mr Pettigrew.

He took a breath, and suggested, “A person can change.”

“I haven’t seen any sign of that.”

“She could stop drinking.”

Miss Holt stared at him. “Our clients don’t adapt to suit _your_ needs, Mr Pettigrew; you adapt to them!”

“I am trying, Miss Holt. Really. Give me one last chance. You won’t regret it.”

“My dear man, I already have. Thrice! I’m afraid we have nothing suitable for you at the moment. Good day, Mr Pettigrew.” Miss Holt was standing.

“Shall I come back tomorrow?” Mr Pettigrew persisted as he politely stood, too. Really, he was getting far too old for this.

“The situation is most unlikely to have changed.” Miss Holt came around the desk, apparently taking Mr Pettigrew’s file back to the cabinet.

“The day after?”

“Only if you desire the exercise.”

Well, he was already hopelessly humiliated, so Mr Pettigrew forced himself to actually beg. “Miss Holt. Please, I _implore_ you.”

But it was too late. Miss Holt had already reached the office area, and didn’t even hear him. “Yes, Miss Holt?” the clerk was asking.

“Mr Darlington is finishing with Laurence Olivier this week, isn’t he? He would be _perfect_ for the Pendragon residence, don’t you think?”

Mr Pettigrew looked at the business card on Miss Holt’s desk.

“I think he would be an excellent choice,” the toadying clerk agreed.

  
_Fortune's Favour_

The card belonged to one ‘Sir Arthur Pendragon’ and the address was ‘71 Onslow Mansions, Oak Street, London W1’.

“Would you retrieve his file for me?”

“Certainly.”

Mr Pettigrew savoured the name for a moment. _Sir Arthur Pendragon of Onslow Mansions_ … He sounded like a true gentleman indeed.

“Thank you.” Miss Holt had turned and was coming back into her office.

Well. Fortune favoured the bold. As quick as a flash of lightning, Mr Pettigrew slid the card up into his hand, and then slipped his hand into his coat pocket.

Miss Holt was unimpressed to find him still there. “I said _good day_ , Mr Pettigrew.”

He felt that his guilt and confusion must be emblazoned across his face for all to see. But he wasn’t going to lose heart now. “Good – day –” Mr Pettigrew replied rather clumsily. And then he got out of there as fast as his nervous old legs could take him.

♦


	3. 10:00 am

Onslow Mansions proved to be a large block of what must be – judging from the lobby – very luxurious apartments. The lobby itself was a cavern of cold echoing marble. Mr Pettigrew looked about him in bewilderment for a moment, wondering just where to go from there, and trying not to be further flummoxed by the rather risqué modern statue displayed in a prominent place on the single large table. There were no other furnishings. He didn’t know if he was relieved or not that there was no doorman.

A lift chimed to announce its arrival, which at least answered the question of how to proceed from the lobby. Two society ladies each with a small poodle disembarked from the lift, and cast what Mr Pettigrew had to assume were dismissive looks at him; he wasn’t brave enough to lift his gaze from the floor at his feet. “Amazing!” one of them remarked in disbelief. He took a breath, tried not to smooth his hopelessly dishevelled hair, and made for the lift.

Moments later Mr Pettigrew was letting himself into the private vestibule of number 71. A discreet brass nameplate by the apartment’s front door read ‘Arthur Pendragon’. Another breath, and Mr Pettigrew rang the bell. Then he turned and walked back down the short hallway.

He didn’t belong there. He had no idea what he’d been thinking.

But he didn’t quite push through the swing doors back into the main corridor. He was hungry and afraid and alone – and – and – fortune favoured the bold. He turned back around.

Mr Pettigrew was just about to ring the bell a second time when the door swung open and a vision appeared. “Hello,” said the vision in soft clear deep tones.

[](http://th05.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/f/2013/175/8/7/8733bb50a55b0d5aa607c15215715673-d6a97lk.jpg)   
_Languid_

He was a young man, perhaps in his early twenties, still languid with sleep, and so extraordinarily handsome as to be genuinely beautiful. For a moment Mr Pettigrew stood there startled, taking in the tumble of fine gold hair, the hazy–summer blue–sky eyes, and the loveliest friendliest smile – while valiantly trying not to notice that the young man was dressed in nothing but a silk dressing gown which was the colour of a blush… Well, the dressing gown and a wide silver band on the forefinger of his left hand. And could this vision be Sir Arthur Pendragon…?

“I have come,” Mr Pettigrew eventually stuttered out, “from Miss Holt’s Agency.”

The lovely smile faltered. “What time is it?”

Ah! He knew the answer to that. “It is five minutes past ten.”

“Ten?”

He checked his watch – his father’s watch – to make certain. “Five minutes past.”

The vision was beginning to look rather disconcerted. “In the morning?”

“I believe so.”

“Oh God!” the man cried, and dashed back inside.

Well, the door had been left open, so after a moment Mr Pettigrew followed him in, stepping rather tentatively into an apartment decorated in the modern style with bold shapes, lavish ornamentation, and a great deal of gold. It was quite astonishing, despite being (like its astonishing owner) in rather a state of disarray.

Sir Arthur was on his hands and knees on the floor in the midst of it all, frantically searching for something hidden amidst a rumpled furry blanket and discarded silk–covered cushions.

Mr Pettigrew ventured further in, marvelling at the statues and expensive furniture and fittings. Tall windows framed by thick black velvet drapes led onto a balcony that looked out over the cityscape. There was even a grand piano. A grand piano! On which there were a number of silver–framed photographs… As Mr Pettigrew drew closer, he was somewhat nonplussed to discover that the images were all of Sir Arthur himself, in various costumes and poses.

“Oh my God, look at the place!” Sir Arthur exclaimed, apparently giving up on his fruitless search.

“I was given to believe you were expecting me,” said Mr Pettigrew. “Miss Holt’s Employment Agency?”

Sir Arthur got to his feet, and said rather more firmly, “Damned right, my good fellow, and you’re not a moment too soon.” He happened to glance up just then, and cried, “Oh!”

A pair of fine silk boxer shorts were suspended from the chandelier, obviously somewhat out of reach. “Allow me,” said Mr Pettigrew, glad to at last find a task he could accomplish. He took an umbrella from the stand near the door, grasped the handle, and with the point gently lifted the boxer shorts free, depositing them in Sir Arthur’s waiting hands.

“Excellent!” Sir Arthur exclaimed. “Time?”

Mr Pettigrew examined his father’s watch. “Six minutes past ten.”

Sir Arthur gasped, and dashed towards the foot of a wide staircase which curved up towards the next floor.

Enjoying the rare feeling of competence valued, Mr Pettigrew asked, “Can I be of any further assistance?”

“Not unless you can get young Mordred out of bed in the next two minutes.”

Ah. There was obviously a child, and it hardly came as a surprise that the lovely Sir Arthur was an indulgent parent. Mr Pettigrew said, “I’ve known my share of naughty boys who oversleep.”

“You too, eh?” Sir Arthur responded with a charming twinkle in his blue eyes. Then he called up the stairs, “Mordred! Darling! It’s time to wake up!” There was, of course, no response. “Damn it!” Sir Arthur muttered, withdrawing from the field.

But Mr Pettigrew was back in fine form. “Allow me,” he said. “I can get your boy up and dressed in no time.”

“You could? Really?”

“Certainly.”

“You _are_ a marvel!” Sir Arthur murmured appreciatively.

“One must not stand for any nonsense, that’s all. They just need to know who’s in charge.”

Mr Pettigrew set foot on the first step, ready to tackle his appointed task, while Sir Arthur dashed off again, calling back, “First door at the top of the stairs!”

♦

The floor above was silent, although Mr Pettigrew thought that any sound must surely be muffled by all the rich fabric and the thick carpet. “Master Mordred?” he enquired, carefully sliding open the double–doors at the top of the stairs.

There was no response, which was hardly surprising.

Mr Pettigrew opened up the doors fully, and walked in. He had been handed the parental authority, after all. “Rise and shine, Master Mordred!” The young fellow was obviously still lying in bed, under a billow of white satin sheets. It was a surprisingly decadent room for a child, with an enormous luxurious dressing table – but at least it was decorated in blues. Well, blues and silver as well. Mr Pettigrew headed for the windows, and drew the curtains aside to let in the cool morning light. “As I said to your father, I won’t stand for any nonsense.”

There was still no response. The recumbent figure had hardly even stirred.

Mr Pettigrew strode to the bed, and as he flung the sheet aside, he cried, “You naughty boy, get up!”

He stood aghast.

It wasn’t a child at all, but a man lying there on his front – perhaps a little younger than Sir Arthur, but a man nonetheless, and dressed in nothing at all.

A man.

A full–grown man displaying a neatly curved rear and a long back, who was slowly stretching up onto his side so that he faced his awakener – and he was happily noting, “I kind of _am_ up, as you can see.”

 _“Oh.”_ Mr Pettigrew could indeed see all too well. He tried not to.

Then he – Mordred – saw that it wasn’t Sir Arthur standing there after all, but a stranger, and he laughed “Oh golly!” as he quickly reached to cover himself again with the sheet.

 _“Oh,”_ Mr Pettigrew repeated in some distress. He backed away, and stumbled out of the room, not forgetting to close the doors on his way.

♦

It wasn’t perhaps the _most_ embarrassing thing that had ever happened to Mr Pettigrew during the course of his working life… but as he quickly retreated back down the stairs, hand fluttering against his tripping heart, he couldn’t recall anything worse. It was _too_ awful, that just as he was starting to make himself useful to a potential new employer, Mr Pettigrew had bungled so very badly… And there was something else as well.

Mr Pettigrew reached the lower floor to find that Sir Arthur was opening curtains, and tidying up. “Excuse me, Sir Arthur, may I speak to you?”

The young man paused in mid–flight, bearing two dishes of empty oyster shells with segments of lemon. Which Mr Pettigrew couldn’t help but think must have been an oddly romantic supper for two young men… Although no doubt, now he considered the matter, there must have been two young women there as well.

“Sir Arthur…”

They were interrupted by the telephone’s loud shrill. Sir Arthur was beginning to look distinctly panicked. “Oh heavens! Answer that, would you? If it’s Sir Uther, tell him… Tell him I’m dead.” And he dashed off again, bearing the remains of last night’s repast.

Mr Pettigrew turned, and went to find the telephone, which was on a side table near the front door. He was still in rather a state of shock, to be honest – so despite contemplating the telephone for a moment and silently rehearsing ‘Pendragon residence’, when he picked up the receiver he didn’t actually manage to say anything at all.

Which was just as well, in the event, as he was immediately assailed by a too–familiar brook–no–nonsense tone. “Good morning, this is Miss Holt here, of Holt’s Employment Agency.”

 _Oh._ Mr Pettigrew was shocked for the second time in as many minutes.

“I’ve just rung to say that one of our best men is on his way over to you now.” A pause stretched too long with no response. “Hello?”

Mr Pettigrew wanted this position. He _needed_ the work, and in any case for the first time in a very long time Mr Pettigrew thought he might actually _like_ his potential employer. And so he found himself putting on an atrocious Continental accent of some kind in order to disguise his voice. “No, no, no! That won’t be necessary. I’m afraid that Sir Arthur is dead.” He almost left a pause for a response, but realised he was better off ending the conversation while he could. “Goodbye.”

He replaced the receiver, and the telephone dinged in a very satisfied manner. So that was another problem dealt with, no matter how clumsily.

Mr Pettigrew looked around for a moment, and then heard various little crashes from the nearby service passage. He went to investigate, and found Sir Arthur in a small, old–fashioned yet well–appointed kitchen – still with the two plates of oyster shells in his hands.

Sir Arthur looked over at him rather helplessly, and confessed, “I really _don’t_ do kitchens.”

Which came as no great surprise to Mr Pettigrew – though he _was_ rather startled when Sir Arthur pulled open a drawer of silver cutlery, and despite a moment’s pause for reflection, tipped the shells and sliced lemon into the drawer, and then dropped the plates in as well for good measure.

Sir Arthur turned to Mr Pettigrew with a brightly hopeful look. “Any luck with Mordred?”

“I’m _so_ sorry, Sir Arthur…”

“It’s just Arthur.”

“Oh, now that wouldn’t be proper –”

“No, I mean, it really _is_ just Arthur.”

“But your card –” He had it still, in his coat pocket, and almost offered it as proof.

Arthur’s cheeks coloured a little – as they hadn’t done despite all the other little irregularities of the morning. “Oh. My father had them made up. He explained – A printer’s error, you see.”

Under a brave exterior, the poor fellow looked so shamefaced about the matter…

“Arthur,” said Mr Pettigrew, happily accepting the honour of using the name, and quite firmly changing the subject. “I’m afraid I walked in on your guest in a state of nature. I fear that I have outraged his sense of propriety.”

Arthur had recovered enough to be eating chocolates from a pink heart–shaped box. “You’re in luck, then,” he responded with a kind of snappy reassurance. “Mordred doesn’t have one of those.”

Mr Pettigrew tried to find a delicate way of explaining his mistake. “He’s a much… _bigger_ boy than I had expected.”

“Oh, you noticed,” said Arthur, interpreting this in the most indelicate way possible. Arthur added with a wry little grimace, “He _is_ , isn’t he?”

 _“Uh…”_ Mr Pettigrew muttered, closing his eyes as he struggled to cope with the fact that actually – as he’d known, really, ever since flinging back the white satin sheet to reveal the rampant young Mordred – that _actually_ there hadn’t been two women there in the apartment at all last night.

The telephone rang again in the midst of his revelation, but this time Arthur dashed off to answer it himself.

Mr Pettigrew was the son of a vicar, and his mother had been the very model of a vicar’s wife. And so this knowledge rocked the solid floor under his feet. Yet Mr Pettigrew found to his surprise that it didn’t make him like Arthur any the less, or want him to be unhappy. And if that meant, in this one very particular case, that Arthur must have the love of Mordred, then who was Mr Pettigrew to deny him?

His eyes flew open in surprise at reaching such a scandalous conclusion –

And Mr Pettigrew belatedly realised that he was alone in a kitchen. And a kitchen meant food. His stomach growled louder than his conscience, and so he put his rather untoward thoughts to the back of his mind for now, and advanced with the intent to forage.

“Hello?” came Arthur’s voice as he answered the telephone call. “Darling!” he happily exclaimed a moment later.

Mr Pettigrew opened the cutlery drawer and examined the oyster shells – which were, unfortunately, empty. He moved over to the table and examined the heart–shaped chocolate box. Likewise empty.

“Really?” Arthur cried. “Right. Uh huh… You, too,” he responded fondly.

Mr Pettigrew suddenly spied a promisingly thick slice of a loaf cake lying discarded on a chopping board, and made directly for it – picked it up, lifting it to his already open mouth –

And promptly put it back down again when Arthur reappeared.

“He’s at the club,” Arthur announced in anxious tones, clasping his hands with his right thumb worrying at the silver ring he wore on his left forefinger. “He’ll be here in ten minutes. Oh God.” The young man was definitely feeling under siege now.

“Who?” asked Mr Pettigrew.

“Uther! Sir Uther.”

“Another man,” Mr Pettigrew concluded.

“Well, of _course_ another man! Heavens!”

So much for love’s young dream! Mr Pettigrew scrambled back from the precipice. To think that he had come so close to condoning this young man’s wicked hedonistic proclivities! Regathering his dignity, Mr Pettigrew said in very clear and simple tones, “I’m afraid there has been a misunderstanding. I can see the problem clearly now, and I really must be going.”

But Arthur had approached nearer while Mr Pettigrew was announcing all this, and the young man now spoke quietly as if they were in each other’s confidence. “You do?”

“Pardon?”

“See the problem. Really?”

“Well,” Mr Pettigrew confessed, “yes.” There was never any point in beating about the bush; a sin was a sin!

“I knew it,” said Arthur. “From the moment I saw you, I knew I could trust you. I can, can’t I?”

His candour was thoroughly disarming. “Yes,” said Mr Pettigrew, “you can.”

“Thank you,” was the quiet response. “Thank you. You’ve saved my life.”

“Have I?”

“Yes.” Then Arthur got down to business. “A coordinated attack from both flanks should carry the day. Come on.” And he led the way back out to the main reception room – pausing in his march to add with a hint of self–consciousness, “Though it’s probably wise not to confuse matters by mentioning Sir Uther.”

“No,” Mr Pettigrew agreed faintly.

Arthur strode off – before pausing again. “Or Merlin.”

“Merlin? Is _he_ your son?”

“My son? Lord, no. Merlin wants to – to be The One. You know? The Other Half to my Whole… or some such nonsense.”

Mr Pettigrew was reeling. “ _Another_ man!”

“Hush,” Arthur admonished him, leading the way again. “You don’t have to tell the whole building about it. Besides, that’s only three. And after all, one of them _is_ family.”

“I see,” he said, though he didn’t.

“What a dear fellow you are! I knew you’d understand.” They were making their way up the stairs now, Mr Pettigrew following along in Arthur’s wake. Arthur stopped to pick up a pair of evening trousers on the way. “Mordred’s rather free about where he undresses,” Arthur explained. “But what can you expect? He’s a theatre producer. Well, his father is. Mordred’s got his first show on at the Ambassador. _I’ve_ got the lead. Well…” Arthur scooped up a pair of discarded cotton boxer shorts, and showed them off with a happy grin as if they were a trophy. “I’m pretty sure I have now.”

Mr Pettigrew followed on, all astonishment.

But when Arthur slid open the doors to the bedroom, Mr Pettigrew was standing firm at his side. A coordinated attack, indeed.

Young Mordred was still in the bed, but at least he was sitting up now, and smoking a cigar. “Hello, again,” he said brightly to Mr Pettigrew. “Awfully sorry about earlier. I thought you were someone else.”

“That is… some relief, I suppose,” Mr Pettigrew managed to respond.

“Jolly nice to meet you, dear fellow, but who the devil are you? Who is he, gorgeous?” Mordred asked Arthur.

“He’s, um…” Arthur was rather taken aback, though his glance at Mr Pettigrew was more curious than anything. “You know, I’m not actually sure.”

“Pettigrew,” he introduced himself at last. “Gaius Pettigrew.”

“Gaius,” Arthur acknowledged with a polite nod. “Gaius,” he informed Mordred. “Gosh,” he added, perhaps surprised at the unusual name.

“Yes, but who _is_ he?” Mordred persisted. “And what in the world is he doing here in this particular bedroom when you are so obviously starkers beneath that delightful robe, don’t you know?”

“We have…” Arthur slowly began, “an engagement.”

“A meeting,” Mr Pettigrew supplied, just a moment too late.

“Meeting,” Arthur amended. “An important meeting.”

“Indeed we do. In twenty –”

“Two.”

“Twenty–two –”

Arthur turned to him. “Not _twenty_ –two, Gaius, my dear friend. _Two_ minutes.”

“Quite,” he concurred. And the pair of them turned to face Mordred again with politely expectant smiles, united in intent.

Mordred sank back against the silken headboard, and gestured expansively. “What the dickens can be as important as another hour in bed with young Mordred–me–lad?”

Arthur laughed low in delight, and approached the bed to drop the boxer shorts and trousers at Mordred’s feet. Mr Pettigrew followed cautiously, collecting from the floor on the way Mordred’s discarded two–tone shoes.

“You don’t mind, do you, Gaius?” Mordred continued. “It’s all a bit new to me, and it’s devilish good fun. Besides, I have nothing till lunch.” He added imploringly to Arthur, “Come back to bed, beautiful…”

And Mordred suddenly grasped Arthur’s hand, and tugged him down into a passionate embrace.

Arthur cried a startled protest, but a moment later the two were kissing, and _involved_ , and – to Mr Pettigrew’s innocent eyes, at least – were already well on the way to making love. He forced himself to avert his gaze, but Mr Pettigrew couldn’t help but wonder how such a sinful act could appear to be so very beautiful and heartfelt.

Then he belatedly remembered his and Arthur’s mission, and he discreetly coughed.

Arthur managed to break the kiss and pull away, despite showing some reluctance. “Darling, I’d love to,” he crooned to Mordred, “but I can’t.”

“Come on, it’s an awfully good cure for a hangover, I’m told.”

“Gaius and I have an engagement… Morgana’s lingerie show is at eleven. You wouldn’t want to vex Morgana, would you?”

Mordred shuddered a little. “No.”

“Anyway,” Arthur continued, “haven’t you got to get ready? Who are you lunching?”

“Oh!” It was clear that Mordred had been caught out. “Nobody, really. Um… Vivian Olaf.”

Arthur gasped in horror – and really pulled away this time, to kneel on the bed beside Mordred without touching him. “Olive Oil? Why? Did she run out of vinegar?”

“Come on, gorgeous…”

“But you said the lead was mine. Mordred, darling, you promised!”

“It is. It is,” Mordred murmured placatingly. “I’m _sure_ it is. _You’re_ the one, beautiful. I just have to clear it with Daddy, being the bounder with the cheque book and all. _You_ know how that goes, don’t you…?”

Arthur turned self–conscious, and apparently couldn’t bring himself to look towards where Mr Pettigrew waited at the foot of the bed.

“He wants me to meet her. _Amazing_ voice, apparently.”

“If you like air–raid sirens,” Arthur retorted.

“It’s just _lunch_ , darling. Come on, Arthur. Remind your producer why you’re right for such a passionate part…”

Mordred pulled Arthur back into his embrace, and pressed kisses to his throat. But for Arthur, at least, the flame had now died. He shot a beseeching look at Mr Pettigrew.

Of course, Mr Pettigrew was still trying to work out why an actor and an actress would both be up for the lead role in a show – but he put that confusion aside for now, and managed to stammer out, “Vivian Olaf the actress?”

Mordred didn’t withdraw from Arthur’s throat, but he muttered, “Know her, what?”

“I did… happen to see her last night on Shaftesbury Avenue.”

“Who with?” cried Mordred, even as Arthur demanded, “With who?”

“A man,” Mr Pettigrew replied. Which was about the extent of his powers of invention.

“Producer?” asked Mordred.

“Mmm,” he responded.

Mordred took this to be an affirmative. “Spivvy fellow?”

“Mmm.”

“Nasty side–parting?”

“Mmm!”

“I knew it!” Mordred scrambled out of bed in a great hurry – while Arthur and Mr Pettigrew shared a triumphant glance. “Danny bloody Greenwood, dash it all,” Mordred was complaining while drawing on his clothes. “On the poach. Well, we’ll see about that.” He already had on his socks, shorts and trousers.

Arthur couldn’t help but trail after him, however. “Mordred, you can’t _possibly_ want Vivian Olaf for Hortensia…”

Apparently he did, for Mordred as good as ran out of the room.

“Not with that oozing smile and those black–olive eyes!” He shot a silent plea at Mr Pettigrew, who was not unsympathetic. “I hope your Daddy’s cheques will stretch to plenty of salt and vinegar!”

Then Arthur took off after Mordred, and Mr Pettigrew followed in their wake, still holding Mordred’s shoes.

By the time he and Arthur reached the main reception room, Mordred was in his shirt and wrestling on his waistcoat. “Er… Jacket?” he asked Mr Pettigrew.

It was on the sinfully soft divan. “Behind you.”

“A quick egg and I’m off,” Mordred announced.

Mr Pettigrew exchanged a glance with Arthur, and said, “I regret we’re out of eggs.”

“You _know_ this?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“Bacon?”

“So sorry, no.”

“Sausage?”

“If only,” sighed Mr Pettigrew. The part of him that wasn’t engaged intellectually – the part that knew nothing more than that he was hungry – growled a little at all this talk of food.

“Smoked haddock fillets?”

“Definitely not.”

“Toast.”

Well. Mr Pettigrew had no comeback for that. He remembered glimpsing half a loaf of bread while he’d been about to scoff down that piece of cake.

Mordred laughed in delight as Mr Pettigrew palpably acknowledged the hit. “I saw the baker’s girl deliver a loaf yesterday.”

Mr Pettigrew handed over Mordred’s shoes, and turned to head for the kitchen. “Allow me.”

Arthur followed him through, and quietly cried, “Gaius, you’ve got to get him out of here! We’re on a deadline!”

“Toast is only two minutes,” Mr Pettigrew said reassuringly, beginning to cut a slice of bread. Then he offered a gentle smile, and whispered, “I realise it’s not my place, but isn’t it possible simply not to answer the door to this Uther fellow?”

“No, I can’t do that.”

“Why?”

“It’s his flat.”

“Oh.”

“And – he’s my father.”

“Oh!” Mr Pettigrew was somewhat relieved at this, as for some reason he’d inferred that Sir Uther was another of Arthur’s romantic tangles. However, it was obvious that Arthur feared his father, and dreaded being caught _in flagrante delicto_ with young Mordred – which was perfectly understandable – so nothing had really changed.

A car horn sounding from the street below made Arthur jump a mile. “Oh God, he’s early!” And he dashed off to a window to check.

Mr Pettigrew strode back into the reception room, bearing a plate for Mordred. “Toast!”

“Marvellous.”

On the way, Mr Pettigrew collected Mordred’s still–knotted tie from the raised arm of a small statue, and handed it over.

“Tie!” Mordred cried, drawing the loop of it over his head. Once he had a free hand, he also grabbed the toast. “Any tea on the go, perchance?”

Mr Pettigrew was rather low on resources at this point.

Arthur took over. “Darling, Danny Greenwood is probably right this very moment sending flowers around to Vivian’s olive grove.”

“You think so?”

Mr Pettigrew managed to confirm, “That does seem to be the producer’s _modus operandi_.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” And Mordred admiringly observed, “You know the business, what?”

Arthur slipped his arm through Mordred’s and began walking him out. “Not that you’re the _least_ bit interested in Vivian Olaf.” He smoothly scooped up Mordred’s fedora on the way, and handed it to him.

“No. No,” Mordred was reassuring him. “Darling, you’re the one for me. You know that. And I don’t just mean on the stage!” As they reached the little entrance hall, Arthur gave Mordred a shove towards the front door. “I say!” came a muffled cry.

Arthur had turned, and was now gesturing expansively at Mr Pettigrew…

Who was obviously feeling just a little bit slow. “What?” he quietly mouthed.

“Arthur?” came Mordred’s plaintive tones.

Arthur gestured some more, and whispered, “Clean it up?” The imploring look on his beautiful face would melt hearts even sterner than Mr Pettigrew’s.

He nodded in reply, dashed off to put the plate in the kitchen – while Arthur dashed off to see Mordred on his way – and then Mr Pettigrew set about tidying up the luxurious blanket and cushions that remained arranged before the fireplace. Sir Uther needn’t read the sinful tale that _those_ items told!

A few quiet moments saw Mr Pettigrew put things to rights – though much of it was by dint of tossing unwanted items into the service passage. Arthur’s slapdash approach to housekeeping was apparently rather a bad influence! Mr Pettigrew straightened up the occasional chairs, and glanced about approvingly. Everything seemed… nigh on pristine.

Which was when a voice struck dread through Mr Pettigrew’s poor old heart. “Sir Arthur?” a young man called from the front door, which had apparently been left open. “It’s Andrew Darlington. From Holt’s Employment Agency.”

Mr Pettigrew gasped, and scurried to find a hiding place.

“Sir Arthur?” The fellow was coming inside! And Mr Pettigrew could tell, just from his voice, that he was fearsomely competent.

The trouble was that there weren’t really any hiding places – so Mr Pettigrew ended up lying on the floor on the far side of the divan, hardly daring to breathe.

“Sir Arthur.”

Well. It was obvious he’d been found out. The confident footsteps had stopped nearby, and Mr Darlington’s tone had changed.

Mr Pettigrew leaned up to look at the man – so groomed, so young, so kempt – and attempted a titled voice. “Yes?”

“Miss Holt’s Agency sent me, Sir Arthur.”

“Some _mistake_ , I think.”

“But, Miss Holt said –”

Mr Pettigrew sat up a bit further, no doubt a little too clumsily for a ‘sir’, but who was Mr Darlington to challenge him? “Miss Holt? Bulldog of a woman, with little round glasses and a mouth like a pair of scissors?”

Mr Darlington manfully tried not to react with a smile. Which little slip made him likeable as well as competent, damn it, and Mr Pettigrew did not want to give up on Arthur. Not yet. Nor did he wish his own falsehoods to be exposed.

“Yes,” Mr Pettigrew continued. “I know her very well. And I repeat, I have no need of anyone, thank you. Good day.”

“But –” said Mr Darlington.

“ _Good_ ,” said Mr Pettigrew. “ _Day_.”

Mr Darlington took a breath, and then nodded politely, and went to see himself out.

Mr Pettigrew sank back, and took a breath himself. Quiet settled around him as Mr Pettigrew counted the seconds, one for each of Mr Darlington’s long purposeful strides – and soon he relaxed a little, thinking that Mr Darlington must have managed his retreat with a good grace and not run into Arthur in the main hallway. Yes, Mr Pettigrew thought he was safe now.

Then the all–too–brief peace fled as Arthur dashed back into the apartment in a panic. “Uther saw the robe, damn it!” Arthur was picking at the robe’s belt, which had apparently become knotted. “And, Gaius – Mordred said he loves me!”

“I see,” he responded neutrally.

“He loves me! But Uther is climbing those stairs… It’s seven flights, but he’s a fit old bastard,” Arthur added with a ringing note of admiration. “He won’t be long!”

As Arthur finally stripped off the robe, he tossed it to Mr Pettigrew – who tried not to blush the same warm colour as the robe to discover that Arthur was indeed ‘starkers’ underneath, as beautifully sculpted as a statue, and more perfectly endowed. Mr Pettigrew concentrated on bundling up the silk into a handful, while Arthur reached into a hidden cupboard, drew out a long rich dark–brown fur coat, and shrugged into it. He looked… delectable.

“We’ve made it,” Arthur said in relief. “You’re a genius, Gaius!”

Mr Pettigrew dealt with the robe by the simple expedient of slipping it under a rug, where it barely left a dimple on the surface. He tapped it down with a foot. “Mr Pendragon,” he said, “it has been a most exciting, one might say exhilarating experience meeting you, though I can’t help feeling one fraught with moral complexity. But now that the crisis has been averted, I simply must take my leave.”

Arthur had dashed off to check on Uther’s progress, but now came running back in again. “What? No, you can’t go. Gaius, _don’t_ go. The crisis has hardly even begun!”

“Goodness,” said Mr Pettigrew. He’d never before been made the object of such an appeal.

“Gaius…” Arthur stood before him, and went so far as to take one of his hands. “Mr Pettigrew… If you leave now, I’ll be right back to square one. I beg you. It’s Uther. I need saving.”

“Saving?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Have you ever been hypnotised by a snake, Gaius?”

“I don’t believe so, no.”

“Well, it’s what they do to small innocent animals. The snake fixes the animal with its eyes –” Arthur began miming this with his hand – “so it has no will. It stays when it should be running!” The hand swayed hypnotically back and forth. “It _wants_ to stay, even if it means death!”

“Oh!”

“And I am that small innocent animal, Gaius. And my father, coming up the stairs this very minute, is that snake.”

The snake struck quick as lightning, and they both gasped in fright.

“When he’s here,” Arthur continued, “I just… I can’t resist him. And he’s bad for me. So bad. And when I waver – and I _will_ waver,” he admitted with a shamefully shameless grin – “I need you to be strong for me.”

Arthur sat down on the sofa, and looked up with vulnerable candour at Mr Pettigrew.

“Please,” said Arthur. “Stay.”

Mr Pettigrew was reeling. It seemed he had been both right and wrong. Sir Uther was indeed another man, a romantic tangle. But Sir Uther was also… “Your father…?”

Arthur nodded.

Mr Pettigrew couldn’t have even imagined such sin. The audacity of it astounded him.

And Arthur, somehow still wholesome and loveable and bright despite all this, was asking to be saved.

“I can see I have no choice,” said Mr Pettigrew. “You’re clearly in danger.”

“Oh, thank you!” cried Arthur. And he swung up and around to lie along the sofa, apparently arranging himself to wait for Uther in ‘sultry temptress’ mode.

Mr Pettigrew gently chided him. “I’m afraid it is _you_ who must be strong, Arthur.”

He realised what he’d been doing by instinct. “You’re right. I must. The time has come to break it off. And with you beside me, I feel strong, confident, _firm_ …” Arthur’s stirring thoughts were segueing into something more sensual, and a moment later he was actually lying on his front and rubbing all of himself back and forth against the sofa. “There is something so sensual about fur next to the skin, don’t you think? Mmm!”

“Mr Pendragon, you’re slipping already. Strong,” Mr Pettigrew reminded him. “Confident. Firm.”

“I know! But I can’t help it.” Arthur was incredibly appealing even when he didn’t want to be, and tenfold so when he did. Mr Pettigrew, however, looked at him severely. “But I _must_ help it,” Arthur concluded with a measure of determination.

Of course a moment later Arthur looked up to see an older man coming into the room, and he let out a great cry of delight. “Uther!”

The man walked in as if he owned the place. Which he did, of course, but Mr Pettigrew received the impression that Uther’s demeanour would be much the same no matter where he was. “I feel like I’ve just climbed bloody Everest,” he said. “The lift’s on the blink.” And his complaint wasn’t peevish or even irritable, but authoritative. Sir Uther Pendragon knew how the world should work, and was entitled to comment on it whenever the world let him down.

Arthur ran over with a happy laugh, and Sir Uther barely waited to put his hat on the table before gathering the young man up in an embrace. “Darling,” Uther said – and they kissed. Passionately.

Mr Pettigrew stared, trying to comprehend. It was one thing to _know_ that a father was carrying on a sexual relationship with his grown son. It was quite another thing to _witness_ it.

And, well. It certainly seemed consensual. Despite having asked to be saved not more than a minute ago, when the kiss broke Arthur was apparently bubbling over with joy. “It’s so good to see you!” he cried, with his hands on Uther’s shoulders, and Uther’s arms hooked around his waist and keeping him close.

And if only Uther wasn’t Arthur’s father! He was a smooth handsome fox of a man with silver hair and a tall confident bearing – and perhaps a rather good choice for Arthur under any other circumstances. Strong and self–possessed, with an intoxicating whiff of danger… He could certainly take flighty young Arthur in hand! Mr Pettigrew had thought men like Uther existed only in the motion pictures.

“That wasn’t you, was it?” Uther was asking, gazing down into his son’s candid eyes, leaning over him like the most romantic of lovers, like Clark Gable making love to Carole Lombard.

“Me?”

“In the lift just now?”

“The lift?”

“Yes.” Then it seemed that Uther caught sight of Mr Pettigrew standing there, no doubt looking somewhat nonplussed. “I didn’t know you had company.”

“Well, you shouldn’t go away so often. I get lonely! This is…”

He walked over towards them to introduce himself. “Pettigrew. Gaius Pettigrew.”

“A pleasure, Mr Pettigrew, I’m sure.” They didn’t shake hands. Sir Uther looked him over dismissively. “And you are, what, a friend?”

“I am Mr Pendragon’s new –” he wondered what he could get away with – “valet.”

“Butler,” Arthur supplied. “He’s my new butler.”

“Butler, yes,” Mr Pettigrew confirmed.

“Really? I know there’s a war coming, but are you the best Miss Holt could manage?”

Mr Pettigrew was astounded by such rudeness. Though he supposed that a man who cared so little for society’s strictures that he would seduce his own son and set him up as a ‘mistress’, could hardly be expected to be polite. The trouble was that Mr Pettigrew was also very conscious of his shabby state, and was consequently mortified that anyone should draw attention to it. “I beg your pardon?” he managed faintly. “I haven’t had the opportunity…”

Uther smoothly overrode him with a voice like liquid gold. “It’s good to meet you, Mr Pettigrew, but Arthur and I haven’t seen each other for three weeks. Got a _lot_ of catching up to do. So if you wouldn’t mind,” he added, with a peremptory tilt of his head towards the front door.

So much for saving poor Arthur. Mr Pettigrew knew himself conquered. “But of course. Good day.” And he made his shaky way towards the entrance hall, conscious of Uther shrugging off his suit jacket, and taking Arthur back into his arms, ravaging him with a kiss, bearing him down to the table…

Luckily Arthur himself wasn’t quite so conquered. “But, Uther, darling!” he broke away to say.

“What?”

“Well, I’ve got Morgana’s fashion show to get to. Haven’t I, Gaius?”

The two of them were standing again. Uther cast a lascivious eye down his son’s form. “Fashion show be damned. Who needs clothes, eh, gorgeous?”

“But you can’t want me to let Morgana down…”

“She’ll understand that you have other… priorities,” Uther smoothly asserted.

Mr Pettigrew had returned as far as the doorway, and stood tall. “But I’m afraid that Mr Pendragon has accepted the invitation.”

Uther cast him an irritable glare. “Well, cancel!” And then he took Arthur by the elbow and led him off towards the stairs. “Come on, darling. Close the door on your way out,” he flung back over his shoulder.

Arthur’s happiness had ebbed away, and he looked rather withdrawn – which renewed Mr Pettigrew’s courage. He strode along fast enough to catch up with and then overtake the pair. “I’m sure,” he announced, “that we can schedule something for later in the week.”

It was obvious that Uther was not used to be denied. “I beg your pardon?”

“I think that Mr Pendragon has an hour on Wednesday at nine–thirty. Shall I pencil it in?” Mr Pettigrew was now standing immovable about a third of the way up the staircase, facing Uther down. Quite literally.

“No,” the man responded. “I’m pencilling now.”

Arthur dared to break ranks. He pulled away from Uther, and dashed up to stand behind Mr Pettigrew, on the next step up so he could look over his shoulder. “Uther, darling, Gaius is right. I’m terribly busy this morning. And you understand, it _is_ for Morgana’s sake.”

“Oh.” Uther frowned in thought, and turned away. As he wandered towards the windows, Mr Pettigrew and Arthur advanced in unison behind him, arm in arm. Uther pondered, and then eventually he turned back. “You haven’t…” he said to Arthur – and was momentarily thrown by seeing Mr Pettigrew still firm at his side. “You haven’t had any other guests, have you?”

“No, darling. Just us two fellows, together.”

“I thought I saw Mordred Orkney’s car outside.”

“Mordred?” asked Arthur innocently.

“Orkney.”

“Do we know him?”

“Lot Orkney’s idiot boy.”

Arthur maintained his guileless air.

Uther turned away again, quietly reflecting, “Pouring Daddy’s millions away at the Ambassador on some stupid musical. _Pile on the Piffle_ , or some such rubbish.”

“ _Pepper_ ,” Arthur corrected despite himself.

“ _Pepper_?”

“Well. So I’m told.”

Uther frowned some more… Then suddenly he opened up the French windows and stepped out onto the balcony. He came back in a moment later to hold a used ashtray right up under Arthur’s nose. “Since when did you smoke, Arthur? I didn’t taste it on you just now. And since when did down–at–heel butlers smoke Cuban cigars? Answer me that.”

Mr Pettigrew considered for a moment, and then picked up the half–smoked cigar from the ashtray. On his dignity, he walked over to where a fancy lighter waited on a side table, and then he lit the butt and took two drags. Somehow he managed to speak afterwards. “If I want to spend my pittance of a salary buying Cuban cigars, then I’ll damned well smoke them and enjoy it, thank you very much. And to hell with your opinion.”

Arthur was impressed and delighted by this display, but Uther remained sceptical. “What, they’re _yours_?”

Mr Pettigrew mentally scrambled through the films he'd recently seen for an appropriate response. “You betcha, baby,” he managed dryly, with nary a cough.

But his composure wasn’t going to last forever. Seeing that, Arthur quickly took over, and went to sit disconsolately on the staircase, clinging to the metal banister. “And, damn it, Uther, you thought that I…”

“What?” said Uther, at last turning away from Mr Pettigrew – who almost collapsed under the influence of the heady fumes of the cigar, and had to prop himself upright against the side table.

“Really, Uther…” Arthur continued in upset tones. Perhaps overdoing it a tad. “You, of all people? How could you? I’m wounded, Father, I am wounded.”

“My darling son… sweetheart… Don’t take it to heart. I’ve had a horribly long night.” Uther went to sit beside Arthur. He carefully pried Arthur’s left hand away from the bannister, and bent his head to press a kiss to the silver ring that Arthur wore.

“Don’t,” Arthur quietly protested.

“I’m not at my best, I know. Forgive me?”

“Don’t. It’s… It’s no good.” All it took, however, was a glance at Uther’s wryly repentant face, another kiss pressed to Arthur’s palm, and Arthur surrendered. “All right, all right,” the young man grumbled. “I forgive you!” And Arthur threw himself into Uther’s arms again. Honestly, if Mr Pettigrew hadn’t wanted to save Arthur from such sin, he’d have given the fellow up as a cause long lost.

“Fashion show,” Mr Pettigrew reminded him from across the room.

“Um… What?” Arthur asked, apparently not quite as lost to Uther’s kiss as Mr Pettigrew had thought.

“Fashion show.”

“God, yes – Morgana’s fashion show.” Arthur pulled away, and stood up to face Uther. “And that will be your punishment for having so little faith! You’ll have to wait.”

Uther was incredulous. “What? So I’m being thrown out of my own flat, am I?”

“Oh, _darling_ …” Arthur murmured sympathetically. He held out a hand, which Uther took; Uther let Arthur haul him up to his feet.

“Perhaps you don’t realise,” Uther said to Mr Pettigrew, “who exactly will be paying your pittance of a salary.”

“Nevertheless,” Mr Pettigrew responded with all his shabby dignity, “I work for Arthur, and must naturally put his interests first. His father would expect as much.”

“Oh–ho!” Uther laughed, as if impressed by this and willing to skirmish. “His father expects the likes of you to refer to him as ‘Sir Arthur’, for a start.”

“Oh, _Uther_ ,” Arthur gently chided, “I can’t impose that on my friends.” He ran a conciliatory hand down Uther’s arm. “And I can’t help but think it might hamper my chances when I’m auditioning and such… Wouldn’t I seem horribly pretentious, expecting to appear on a film poster as ‘ _Sir_ Arthur Pendragon’…?”

Uther slid his arms around Arthur’s waist again, gazing down upon him fondly. “But there’s something so _noble_ about you, Arthur. Anyone who knows you will agree. I bought our title for _you_ , you know.”

“Anyone who hears us will know that it’s a con, Father. Don’t you hear yourself? You betray the truth with every syllable. You can take the man out of the East End, but you can’t take the Cockney out of his accent.”

“Yes, you can,” Uther argued. “ _You_ can, and I _have_ – you’re living proof of that, Arthur. Those fancy schools I paid for were well worth it. You talk like a proper gent now. You talk… so very _beautifully_.”

And Uther leant over Arthur, and was kissing him again, so smooth, so passionate, so involving… and Arthur was letting himself be kissed. Was utterly revelling in it… And perhaps it wasn’t so very strange for a man to want to luxuriate in the passionately loving approval of his father…

Mr Pettigrew caught up with his wayward thoughts, and cleared his throat rather pointedly. “Fashion show,” he said.

Arthur managed to break away from the kiss, though he could do nothing much about Uther’s strong arms encircling him. Arthur placed his hands against Uther’s shoulders, and pushed a little, his expression charmingly regretful. “ _Please_ , Father.”

“Very well.” Despite his bewilderment over this novel experience of being refused, Uther ended up taking it well enough. He let Arthur go, and the two of them walked over to the table. Uther swept up his jacket and put it on. “Tonight, then. At the club.” He gathered his hat, and acknowledged, “Mr Pettigrew.”

“Good day,” he said in farewell, cigar still in hand as if about to take another drag. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

Uther advised Mr Pettigrew very pointedly, “Tonight is booked.”

And then he walked out of the apartment.

Arthur and Mr Pettigrew stood there staring at each other in a silent state of shock.

After a moment in which Uther did not reappear, Mr Pettigrew went to stub out the cigar in the ashtray.

Arthur hovered for another long moment, listening for Uther to come storming back in and still not quite believing it when he didn’t. But finally it seemed clear that Uther had left and wasn’t coming back – or not in the immediate future, anyway.

Arthur turned to Mr Pettigrew, and cried, “You were magnificent!” Then he asked in concern, “Are you all right?”

Mr Pettigrew felt rather pale. “I have never sworn before in my life. Not even in my mind.”

“Well, I didn’t hear you swear,” Arthur reassured him.

“Yes, I did. I said _damned_ and _hell_. And I meant them.”

“Oh, that’s not swearing.” Arthur laughed, and sank to sit on the sofa. “They came out of the sinful category an age ago.”

“Desperation. That’s what it’s come to. A little desperation and life can make of us whatever it chooses.” Mr Pettigrew sat down opposite Arthur, still in a state of shock. “In my case, a smoking, swearing accomplice to misdeeds in a den of iniquity.”

Arthur was deliciously scandalised. “No! Really?”

Mr Pettigrew looked at him.

“Oh, you mean here.” Arthur laughed again, though quieter this time, before continuing quite genuinely. “But _I_ was the desperate one, Gaius. I’m always desperate. Think of what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”

“I shudder to think what goes on when I’m not here.”

Arthur took that on the chin with only the mildest chagrin.

“Morals are very important to me, Mr Pendragon. I am the son of a clergyman.”

“You poor thing,” Arthur responded, genuinely sympathetic.

“No, it was a perfectly good upbringing – thank you,” he added, just as genuinely. Though he had to admit, “I am beginning to think that perhaps I was a little sheltered.”

“But it’s not _always_ like this,” Arthur exclaimed. Which he amended to, “Occasionally it’s not like this.”

Mr Pettigrew raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“All right, it’s _always_ like this. Is that really so awful? Please don’t go! This is the most important day in my whole life, and I need all the backup I can get.”

In many ways Mr Pettigrew didn’t really _want_ to go. It was more that he knew he _should_.

“I’ll phone up that Holt woman right now and I’ll double your salary.” And Arthur was already halfway across the room, heading for the telephone.

“Oh, no, no, no! Thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

Arthur came back readily enough, and sat down next to Mr Pettigrew. “I don’t even know what a butler does, really. Uther wanted me to have someone ‘befitting for a titled gent’. I only agreed when I heard that Vivian Olive Oil has one, and I figured I’d better get one, too. Now that I see you in action,” Arthur continued, “you’re amazing.”

“Am I?” How lovely to be appreciated! “It’s very kind of you to say so.”

“Mordred, gone. Uther, gone. And that cigar!” Arthur nudged Mr Pettigrew with his shoulder. “That was fast thinking.”

“I’m only happy to have been of assistance.”

“Mr Pettigrew,” said Arthur, casting about him for the right words. Apparently only three would do. “I love you.”

Then Arthur pressed a friendly yet enthusiastic kiss to Mr Pettigrew’s mouth, before dashing off up to his bedroom.

Mr Pettigrew lifted his fingers to his lips, startled yet pleased by this unique gesture. And perhaps… perhaps even somewhat stirred.

Arthur came halfway back down the stairs, and called – as if inviting Mr Pettigrew on the most marvellous adventure – “Well, come on!”

After a quiet moment passed by, Mr Pettigrew finally slipped off his coat, and followed his new friend up the stairs.

♦

Mr Pettigrew made himself useful by making the bed while Arthur quickly dressed in a pair of dark blue suit trousers and a cream shirt.

“Why don’t you put something else on, Gaius?” Arthur suggested as he fastened his shirt buttons. “I mean, nobody died, did they? I suppose Larry made you wear that sackcloth and ashes for contrast, to make himself look even more handsome.”

“Larry?” he echoed in confusion.

“That’s certainly not a game I play, Gaius. So, let’s lose the rags and go with the riches, shall we?”

Mr Pettigrew glanced down at his old brown suit, which certainly had seen better days. He tried to remember if it had actually been black once. “Unfortunately these clothes appear to be the only ones I possess.”

“You’re kidding. What about shoes?” Arthur tried.

“I’m afraid not.”

“I see. Well, we’ll just have to go buy some!” Arthur began knotting an expensive–looking tie of dark pinks and blues.

“I’m not in a position to,” Mr Pettigrew was forced to declare.

“Out of cash?” Arthur asked sympathetically. “None at all?”

“None at all.”

“Gosh. You butlers sure can spend. Or roulette, was it? Blackjack?”

“Certainly not!”

“Well, whatever. It’s on me.”

“No, no, no, I couldn’t possibly…”

“Oh yes, you could.” Arthur swung on his suit jacket, and then picked up a very sharp–looking narrow–brimmed fedora. “I, for one,” he announced, “am not running around town with Oliver Twist’s dad.” Mr Pettigrew couldn’t help but smile a little at that, and Arthur grinned back at him, pleased. “After the lingerie show, we’ll go shopping.”

♦


	4. 11:00 am

The two of them strode through the chilly morning shoulder to shoulder, while London bustled around them. Arthur drew admiring glances, of course, from plenty of women and not a few men – which the young fellow obviously enjoyed while pretending not to notice. When he saw that Mr Pettigrew had caught him out, he simply winked and laughed, as if happily sharing the fun.

On their way through an arcade, Arthur paused in front of a shop window. The mannequins were dressed in defiantly patriotic navy blue suits with carmine red and white accessories – topped off by the most ghastly gas masks that looked as if they were more likely to suffocate you than save you. Signs warned ‘GAS: THE SILENT KILLER’ and ‘ALWAYS CARRY IT WITH YOU’.

“It’s so frightening,” said Mr Pettigrew.

“Yes. Double–breasted jackets,” Arthur responded. “It’s a horror show.” After a moment he added, “The red’s a nice colour, though.”

“Yes, a very nice colour,” Mr Pettigrew absently agreed. Seeing his reflection in the shop window lined up with the dapper suits made him feel shabbier than ever – and he couldn’t help but reflect that he was about to attend a fashion show. He reached for his shirt collar, and straightened it a little; tried to make up for the clothes with a slightly more perfect posture.

Arthur must have seen his shudder, for he asked, “Are you cold?”

“Well, perhaps a little.”

Arthur had already taken a silk scarf out of his jacket pocket, and reached to drape it around Mr Pettigrew’s neck. The colour – and the scent of it! – were the loveliest pale lavender, and the fringe shimmied hypnotically. “Here you are.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t,” he protested.

“No, you must. A token of gratitude – for this morning.”

Mr Pettigrew arranged the scarf to sit just so under his jacket collar, and admired the effect in the window’s reflection. The colour and the sheen seemed to lift his whole outfit, his whole self. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

Arthur grinned happily, and led them off on their way.

♦

As they proceeded down another street, Mr Pettigrew noticed to his horror that Miss Holt was approaching from the other direction. Her stern face filled him with dread, and he knew in that moment that he couldn’t bear to be torn from Arthur’s side. Not yet, anyway. He would just die a little to watch Arthur’s brightness dimmed by disappointment as Miss Holt waxed scornful about Mr Pettigrew.

Well, he couldn’t come up with an excuse to divert Arthur’s path, and there wasn’t another moment to lose, so Mr Pettigrew dropped back a step and then ducked in to walk along a luckily–located colonnade. Such a paltry subterfuge was enough, thank heavens, as Miss Holt continued on her way, oblivious even of Arthur.

Once the pavement was clear, Mr Pettigrew hurried to catch up again.

“Gaius!” cried Arthur as Mr Pettigrew fell into step beside him. “Keep up, we’re late!”

♦

As they crossed the last road and entered the approach to the Savoy hotel, Arthur was explaining why this was such an important day for him. “Today is when Mordred announces to the world who’s going to play the lead in _Pile on the Pepper_. And with the unmentionables that I’m about to pick up, it’s no contest, my friend.” Arthur envisioned the headline blazoning across the sky: “‘Arthur Pendragon tops the bill!’”

“How exciting!” cried Mr Pettigrew. “Is it to be a West End show?”

“It is to be a West End _smash_ , Gaius, and it’s going to make me a star.”

“I thought you were a singer.”

“Well, I’ve got a voice. But that’s not how you become famous. No. First stop, West End. Next stop, Hollywood.”

How very glamorous! “Have you done much of that sort of thing?”

“Didn’t you catch _Hold My Hand_? One of mine.”

“Stanley Lupino!”

“Oh, you _did_ see it?”

“Yes! Which part were you?”

“I was in the party scene. In the back.”

“Really?”

“Behind the palm tree drinking a margarita.”

Mr Pettigrew was embarrassed to find that his memory wasn’t as good as he’d thought it was. “I…”

Arthur sailed smoothly on, however. “I think they cut that for the European print. A little _de trop_ for our English audiences even today, if you know what I mean?”

“Of course.”

“Then there’s _Trouble Brewing_ , with Googie Withers and –”

“George Formby!”

“Seen that as well?” Arthur asked a little sourly.

“ _Trouble Brewing_ is a wonderful picture! Who were you?”

“Not even the trouble,” Arthur admitted. “Here we are,” he said as they reached the front door of the hotel. “Come along!”

Mr Pettigrew took a moment to marvel at the gloriously opulent and daringly modern hotel building before he headed inside. He felt as if he were entering an entirely different life.

♦

The room into which Arthur and Mr Pettigrew were ushered was utterly lovely, all creams and gold in subtle lighting, and mirrors making it into an infinite palace where one couldn’t be quite sure of the boundaries. Music rippled and wafted from three harps, lifting the whole thing into the divine.

A few rows of chairs gathered on either side of a long catwalk. The place was comfortably filled with society women, dressed to the nines and sporting shapely hats. Arthur led the way down the room, nodding a friendly hello to the women he passed. It seemed that he and Mr Pettigrew were the only men there, but that didn’t seem to faze Arthur in the slightest.

At the far end of the catwalk Mr Pettigrew was delighted to discover a semicircle of tables bearing every sort of sweet and savoury treat that he could possibly imagine – and more as well! He paused to stare at such bounty, his mouth watering…

Arthur turned back to collect him. “Gaius. Come on. Don’t be shy!”

Mr Pettigrew followed obediently, and sat beside Arthur when he found them seats in the front row.

The show was already underway. The model currently progressing down the catwalk was wearing a corset – which she was displaying – along with a brassiere, stockings and high heels… And that was all. “Oh dear…” Despite everything he had already experienced that day, Mr Pettigrew found himself rather shocked. “She’s naked!”

“Well, _hardly_ ,” Arthur riposted. “There’s so much whalebone on her, I’m looking for a tail – and flippers!”

The young man laughed, and Mr Pettigrew had to acknowledge the point with a smile. Not that he knew much about corsets for women, but it did all seem to be rather… structured. The model strutted further down the catwalk and posed insouciantly. Nevertheless, Mr Pettigrew had to ask, “Won’t they mind us being here? Two men…?”

“Nonsense. In any case, I have a lot of friends here, and they all know I’m just one of the girls.” Arthur cast Mr Pettigrew a piercing glance. “And I suspect _you’re_ not the marrying kind either…”

Mr Pettigrew was rather taken aback by this thought. He wasn’t entirely sure what Arthur meant by it, but he guessed enough to be shocked, and he knew enough to counsel discretion.

Luckily Mr Pettigrew was saved from responding by the Mistress of Ceremonies. “This season’s must–have for the fuller figure,” she announced, “the Slimlastic corset and uplift brassiere. A most effective reducer.”

Arthur was successfully distracted. “If you don’t mind a collapsed lung!”

Mr Pettigrew was likewise distracted. He stared at the icily beautiful lady standing at the microphone, so perfectly coiffed and groomed. “I recognise her,” he said.

“Morgana?” Arthur asked. “She’s my cousin.”

“Really? You look nothing alike.”

“Well, in an honorary capacity. Her father and mine were best friends; we practically grew up together. Now she owns the best salon in London. All the latest fashion. _All_ the latest gossip…”

The next model sashayed down the catwalk, and Morgana announced, “Another slenderiser from Aphrodite for the winter season, is this unique wrap–around corset with side panels and front–to–back gussets, in fleece–lined rubber, with rustproof steel spirals throughout.”

“Rustproof steel!” Arthur commented. “We really are preparing for war!”

Which was when Mr Pettigrew gasped.

“Gaius…?”

“Another man,” he managed. “In the room.”

“Oh.” Arthur followed Mr Pettigrew’s line of sight, and smiled at what he saw. “Oh, that’s Agravaine – my uncle, on my mother’s side. Not honorary, in this instance.”

“Go on…” Mr Pettigrew prompted, feeling somewhat intrigued. Agravaine was a man of substance, perfectly dapper in his fine suit, with an intelligent though genial face, and dark hair that wanted to escape into waves despite efforts to control it. The two women he was currently talking to seemed rather smitten, and Mr Pettigrew could see why.

“He designs underwear. And not these walking air–raid shelters. _Beautiful_ things. They say there are very few men who really appreciate the female figure like Agravaine. Apparently it doesn’t matter what they’re wearing, he can see right through to the real woman underneath.”

Mr Pettigrew almost blushed with a rather self–conscious enchantment. He’d never before wished that he himself was a woman. “Oh…” he sighed.

“And this is his collection,” Arthur said, indicating the catwalk.

A model appeared, wearing a delicious frothy concoction of silk and lace.

Morgana announced, “New this season from Mimi Couture, designed by Agravaine de Bois.”

There was a pause in which Agravaine was acknowledged and applauded.

“He’s dating Morgana,” Arthur confided. “He’s a brave man! The magazines call her ‘tempestuous’. I mean, of _course_ she’s a darling, but she thrives on being difficult…”

Morgana let Agravaine have his due, but then continued, “As you can see, it’s going to be a chilly winter for Mimi fans.” Mr Pettigrew glanced over to see Agravaine reacting wryly. “And in that ever–practical one–hundred percent silk, you’re going to have to employ another maid to do the washing, ladies. That’s if you can afford one after you’ve paid through the nose for one of these _froufrou_.”

“Ah,” said Arthur with a wry smile to match Agravaine’s. “Sounds like they had another break–up.”

“And you’d better start your diet now because there’s no hiding your indulgences, ladies. Not a support in sight to help human nature.”

Agravaine’s brow was ruefully wrinkled. Morgana was watching him carefully to see whether her arrows had hit their mark. He weathered the attack as if it wasn’t unexpected or undeserved, and then he turned and moved away.

When he looked around, Mr Pettigrew happened to notice that a few women were now gathered around the tables of food, being served by a young woman in a hotel uniform. This seemed very promising. All thoughts of underwear, Arthur, Morgana and Agravaine were eclipsed. “Excuse me a moment?” Mr Pettigrew said to Arthur, who was for now too caught up in the show to mind being deserted.

Mr Pettigrew approached the tables reverentially, taking up a plate and bearing it in both hands to wait his turn to be served. He found himself distracted a little – even from the food! – as Agravaine de Bois appeared, slipping into a place next to the woman on Mr Pettigrew’s right.

The woman greeted him as a friend. “Agravaine.”

“Margery!” he responded in kind, warmly and respectfully.

Margery was of a certain age, but richly groomed. She asked Agravaine in a wistfully game tone, “So, what can you do to prop up this ancient monument?”

Agravaine barely paused to consider. “If you _must_ talk of ancient monuments, did you know that the Elgin Marbles were once painted?”

“No, I can’t say that I did.”

“Bright, garish colours. Awful. Now aren’t they better just marble, worn a little into something wise, as well as beautiful?”

Margery laughed a little under her breath. “Agravaine de Bois, you are the world’s best flatterer.”

“Or maybe I’m saying you belong in a museum,” he riposted, perhaps a little too honest not to undermine himself. Somehow Agravaine caught Mr Pettigrew’s eye over Margery’s shoulder, and Agravaine seemed shamed into a more genuine compliment. “You don’t tamper with a masterpiece, Margery. You allow it to be. That’s my advice to you.”

It was at last Mr Pettigrew’s turn. He lifted his plate and was served with a small cream cake that looked deliciously _froufrou_ … He waited for more, but apparently that was to be an elegant sufficiency.

As Margery moved away, Mr Pettigrew took a step in the direction of where Arthur still sat. But he was detained when Agravaine addressed him. “That scarf, if I may say, looks perfect on you.”

Mr Pettigrew’s hand flew to the lavender silk that graced his throat. “Well, thank you. It was a present.” After a moment, he continued a little more warmly, “You know, I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn.”

Agravaine looked impressed. “Now the flatterer has been out–flattered.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s one of mine. The design. Last year for Mimi Couture for Men. I can’t _tell_ you how much trouble it took to secure that exact shade… and the knotting of the fringe is quite complex.”

“My goodness,” said Mr Pettigrew.

Agravaine was surprised. “You really didn’t know…” He was genuinely pleased. “Well, that is a compliment indeed, sir. Thank you. Agravaine de Bois.”

Mr Pettigrew shook his proffered hand, knowing that he was smiling in delight, perhaps even beaming. “Gaius Pettigrew.”

“A pleasure.”

But the perfect moment was ruined when Mr Pettigrew’s cream cake slid off the plate and landed _splat_ on one of Agravaine’s fine shoes. Mr Pettigrew was utterly aghast.

Agravaine was urbanely amused. He plucked and shook out his handkerchief, which was also fine. “Not to worry.” And he crouched to wipe up the mess.

Mortified, Mr Pettigrew turned and headed steadily for the nearest door. But when he got there, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored panels, and paused to consider his reflection. After a moment he drew off the scarf, and pushed it into his coat pocket. He had been in danger of forgetting himself, of getting above himself. He knew better. He had long known better.

But being butler to Arthur Pendragon. At least that much was within his grasp. Mr Pettigrew recovered his shaky determination, and headed back towards Arthur, taking care that he didn’t encounter Agravaine on the way.

When he got there, Mr Pettigrew found that Morgana was sitting there talking with Arthur. The young woman remained flawlessly attractive, even though she was slumped disconsolately in her seat, smoking with a kind of nervous desperation. “Well, I _didn’t_ answer the telephone because I _couldn’t_ answer the telephone,” Morgana was saying.

“Why not?” Arthur asked with a rather unexpected and endearing naivety.

“I was in the bathroom.”

“Having a bath?”

“No…” Morgana took a long drag on the elegant cigarette holder. She seemed really rather put out. “I just didn’t answer the telephone, and now Agravaine says the engagement’s off. Just because of one stupid little misunderstanding.”

Morgana’s eyes widened in astonishment when she finally noticed Mr Pettigrew standing there waiting.

Arthur performed the introductions. “Morgana, this is Mr Pettigrew. Gaius, this is my cousin Morgana Gorlois.” He explained to Morgana, “Mr Pettigrew is my new butler.”

“Really?” Morgana looked him up and down. “How intriguing.”

Arthur acknowledged the point. “I know. Lost his shirt playing poker or something. But he’s the best in London. Miss Holt told me so herself. Just freed up after Laurence Olivier finished _Q Planes_. Isn’t that right, Gaius?”

He managed to say, “I’ve heard it’s a very fine picture.”

Morgana was, however, looking up at Mr Pettigrew suspiciously. “Haven’t we met before?”

“I don’t believe so.” It was necessary, of course, for Agravaine’s honour if not Morgana’s, that Mr Pettigrew entirely forget that encounter at the train station.

“Recently…” Morgana was pondering. “I never forget a face…” Then she added, “You really shouldn’t wear those muddy browns, you know. They’re not your colour.”

“Oh.”

Arthur said, “The funeral parlour thing? It won’t be a problem for much longer. We’re heading to your store to correct the situation as soon as this show’s over.”

Morgana immediately made up for her slights by saying, “My shop and salon are at your disposal, my dear.”

“Oh!”

“Come with us!” Arthur cried to Morgana, springing up to stand by Mr Pettigrew. “We can do Gaius, and you can tell me all about Agravaine, and I can tell you about my _amazing_ morning.”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Morgana chided fondly, “you’re not the only person demanding my attention, you know.”

“I _do_ know, my dear, but think how much fun we had fixing up Lance together – and what a success that was! Did you hear? He and Gwen are on their honeymoon even now, in New York City!”

“Lord! Yes, Lance… Dressing up that country bumpkin was hardly a challenge. Especially as I suspect Gwen would have taken him anyway.”

“Well, if you’d like more of a challenge, Morgana…” Arthur slid a fond arm around Mr Pettigrew’s waist, and squeezed. “No offence, my darling.”

“None taken,” he replied.

Morgana considered Mr Pettigrew for a long moment, her sharp gaze taking in and assessing his every feature – and then at last she shrugged. “Hang it all, the hair’s not _completely_ impossible, and the bone structure’s there. Why the devil not?” She turned to a woman nearby. “Beatrice, cancel my appointments. I’m suddenly inconvenienced.”

“Perfect!” Arthur was delighted. He took Mr Pettigrew by the hand, and for a moment they almost danced as Arthur spun him about and led him off. “Come on, now!”

“But what is she going to do?” Mr Pettigrew asked a little piteously.

“We’re going to do a fix–it!”

♦


	5. 12:00 pm

“Turned Uther out of his own flat?!” Morgana exclaimed in disbelief.

Mr Pettigrew was being subjected to a facial and a manicure in one corner of the large salon, while models displayed a variety of suits to Arthur and Morgana. Apparently the two young people assumed they couldn’t be overheard, just because they were sitting at some distance and on a raised platform.

“Gaius didn’t like him,” Arthur explained.

“Good heavens! Uther _let_ him?”

“He was no match for Mr Pettigrew. My dear, the man can do anything. Anything.”

Morgana directed the models for a moment. “No. Definitely not. It’s too grey, it’s too passé. Not that one, either.” She added to Arthur, “He’s coming to the party?”

“Well, of course. He’s going to clinch the lead in _Pile on the Pepper_ for me. Oh, no,” Arthur said, “not the cream. Not with his white hair, I think.”

“But I thought you’d secured that deal last night.”

“Well, _I_ thought so, too. And I played it magnificently, if I do say so myself. But then Mordred announced that he was going to have lunch with Olive Oil.”

“Vivian Olaf? Oh, my dear.”

“Exactly. So you can see why I need Gaius’s powers.”

“I do indeed,” said Morgana. Then she mused, “I wonder…”

“Yes?” prompted Arthur.

“Oh, nothing,” Morgana replied – unconvincingly.

Then suddenly Morgana and Arthur chorused as they saw a suit they liked, “ _That_ one!”

Morgana announced with some satisfaction, “Gaius, I think we’re ready.”

It was probably his last chance. During a temporary lull in proceedings, Mr Pettigrew stole the slices of cucumber from his eyes, slipped them into his mouth and gobbled them up. He smiled, feeling better already.

♦

Mr Pettigrew’s hair had been washed in expensive potions, and then given a cut that felt as if it had actually been tamed into submission. He’d been given the finest new underwear, and he was now being fitted with a crisp white shirt. He felt newly minted, and they weren’t even finished yet.

Arthur and Morgana were talking together just on the other side of the curtains that discreetly partitioned off the fitting rooms. Apparently, despite their somewhat lowered voices, they didn’t really care whether they were overheard or not. Arthur was currently asking, “And you’re sure that’s all it was, Morgana, my dear? Just a late train? Gerry wasn’t involved somehow?”

“You’re as bad as Agravaine,” Morgana complained. “Gerry and I are finished. Absolutely finished.”

A pause lengthened in which Arthur didn’t respond.

It didn’t take long before Morgana broke. “All right, so Tabitha and I bumped into him at Hat Day at the races. What of it? We got the last train in to Victoria and that was absolutely that.”

Mr Pettigrew blinked. Morgana and her friends might well have caught the first train in to Victoria the following morning, but he knew very well it hadn’t been the last train that night.

“My fruit fedora was much admired,” Morgana continued, “thank you for asking. Agravaine can check with the station if he’s so damnably suspicious. Arrived at eleven–thirty and took a taxi straight home. Alone. The whole thing is ridiculous. One late train and the whole marriage is off.”

“Men are so untrusting,” Arthur reflected. “I can’t think why.”

Another pause stretched.

Until Arthur asked, “Are you all right, Morgana?”

“Sorry, I was just remembering something.” Then Morgana raised her voice to ask, “Everything all right, Gaius?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Just a moment.” Somehow he knew that Morgana had now realised where and when and under what circumstances she had first met Mr Pettigrew.

♦

Arthur took Mr Pettigrew’s arm in his and pressed his hand in excitement as a mirror was spun around for the big reveal. Mr Pettigrew gazed at the perfectly groomed and suited gentleman who stared back at him. Of course the man in the mirror was nothing when compared to Arthur’s youthful beauty, but for a man of a certain age and a certain social background, he was really almost quite handsome.

“This is me?” Mr Pettigrew asked after a moment.

“All you.” Arthur let him go, and with a gentle stroke of Mr Pettigrew’s shoulder encouraged him up into the perfect posture. “As nature intended.”

“My hair!” he murmured in awe.

“Gaius!” Morgana exclaimed. “Control yourself, for heaven’s sake!”

He was ashamed to find himself rather weepy, and quickly pulled himself together. “Of course. Of course.”

“That was close,” she observed in sardonic tones.

Mr Pettigrew sighed, and carefully shook his head in disbelief. His hair actually looked like it was meant to be that way. His hair actually _made sense_.

Arthur said rather brightly, “Well, I’m just going to put all this, and a few other things, on Uther’s account. I’ll be right back.”

Which left Mr Pettigrew alone with Morgana – who observed in much the same tones, “Heavens, _what_ a transformation.”

“I’ve never had the opportunity…” Mr Pettigrew admitted, “I suppose I’d never have felt I deserved it.”

“A butler such as yourself?” she said mockingly. “Laurence Olivier’s butler, no less.”

Mr Pettigrew stood there in the dock, exposed as the fraud he was.

“Let’s hide some of those tiny flaws,” said Morgana. She went to fetch an applicator that looked rather like a yellow pencil, and started dabbing it in the circle below Mr Pettigrew’s right eye… She was unwontedly intimate and just a tiny bit threatening. “As you’re such a genius in solving problems involving our menfolk, I was wondering whether you could have a word with Agravaine for me. Smooth over this little misunderstanding. We’re getting married, you know. Or were. It would mean such a lot to me.”

Mr Pettigrew tried to stand on his dignity. It wasn’t that he wanted to punish Morgana for her infidelity. But he found that he _did_ want to protect Agravaine. “I’m afraid I couldn’t do that.”

“Really?”

Mr Pettigrew was alarmed to see Morgana’s eyes well up.

The woman confided, “You and I, Gaius, we don’t have what the Arthurs of this world have. We have to work at it, improvise a touch, act a little to get what we want.” A tear brimmed over and rolled down Morgana’s cheek. Despite her words, Mr Pettigrew feared the tears were quite genuine. “You know what I mean, don’t you? There,” she said, daubing one last time at Mr Pettigrew’s cheek. “I’m sure Arthur won’t mind.”

Arthur came bouncing back in. “That will put a few more grey hairs on Uther’s head. Heavens,” he said to Mr Pettigrew, “you _do_ look ravishing!”

Morgana had already surreptitiously wiped away her tears. “Wonderful news!” she announced. “Gaius has very kindly offered to sort things out with Agravaine for me.”

“But that’s marvellous!” cried Arthur. “If anyone can make Agravaine see sense, Gaius can. Isn’t that right?” Neither of the others replied, but Arthur didn’t seem to notice. “Thank you, Morgana!” he offered, before saying to Mr Pettigrew, “Come along, my friend.” And Arthur led Mr Pettigrew away.

There was one last moment in which Mr Pettigrew looked back at Morgana, and they exchanged a glance via the medium of the mirror. Morgana seemed to realise that Mr Pettigrew was at best an uneasy ally – and Mr Pettigrew knew that Morgana would make a formidable enemy if that’s what she chose.

♦


	6. 2:30 pm

Arthur and Mr Pettigrew returned to Arthur’s apartment, bearing a number of boxes and bags each emblazoned with a large elegant ‘M’ for Morgana. As soon as Arthur opened the front door, the poignant strains of piano music could be heard. Arthur stalled in the doorway, his face paling. “Listen.”

“Uther?”

Arthur shook his head. “Fingers good for only one thing.”

“Mordred?”

Arthur scowled.

“Oh, yes. Olive Oil.” Well, Mr Pettigrew’s confidence had been thoroughly renewed since that morning. “Permit me.” He entered the apartment, and advanced as far as the table – and stopped in shock when he recognised the young man playing the piano. “Thief!” he cried, though rather breathlessly. “Burglar!”

“I’ve had some reactions to my playing, but never quite that.”

“I saw you at the jail! I _saw_ you!”

The young man looked up and fastened his gaze – deep dark blue eyes as dangerous as the ocean – upon Mr Pettigrew. “Oh, it’s you!” He rose from the piano stool. “Oh God, I was so sorry about that… I’m glad to see you’re all right. Not too bruised, I hope?”

Arthur breezed in, bright and cheerful, perhaps overdoing it a bit. “Merlin!”

The young man sat back down again, looking rather peeved.

“It’s good to see you, Merlin,” Arthur continued, confidently striding over to stand beside the piano stool. “However did you get in?”

After all the shocks of the day, Mr Pettigrew wondered if he should be able to cope with the fact that Arthur could be so familiar with a convicted criminal… And not only that. If this was Merlin, then this was the man who wanted to be The One for Arthur.

“A fellow picks up a few tricks in prison, you know? Breaking and entering being one of them… So,” Merlin continued, addressing Arthur but glancing at Mr Pettigrew as if enlisting him on Merlin’s side of the disagreement. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Oh, well…” Arthur was deploying all his charm, though rather nervously. “I think I must have got the days mixed up. Or was it the place? I’m… I’m sorry, Merlin. I realise you’re angry – but then again, I know you’re man enough to forgive me.”

“You’re sorry, are you…?” Merlin asked in sceptical tones.

Merlin suddenly stood, picked Arthur up by the waist, and sat him – plonk! – on top of the piano, not neglecting to shake him a bit on the way. Mr Pettigrew watched with his hands at his mouth, his gasp echoing Arthur’s.

“ _Now_ what do you say?” asked Merlin.

Arthur retorted, “I say that if you do that again, I’ll throw you through the damned window.” Softer now, he added, “But then, I might also confess… that I deserve it.” He caressed Merlin’s lovely face, running a thumb–pad along one sharp cheekbone. “Every bit.”

Merlin was all longing… but he frowned. “Oh no… Don’t play that game with me. Not now, Arthur, and not ever again.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve made a fool out of me for the last time.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Merlin. You know you can do anything you like to me. Anything. Shake me again…” Arthur laughed. “Though you’d better not stand too close to the window.” Merlin smiled fondly at that, and Arthur continued in quieter tones. “I think that maybe… right now… you could… kiss me?”

Arthur closed his eyes, and offered his beautiful self for a kiss. Merlin watched him, obviously so very tempted…

[](http://th01.deviantart.net/fs70/PRE/f/2013/175/0/0/0068b80db6804e57d0436af242359a57-d6a97m2.jpg)   
_Tempted_

But then Merlin slammed down the piano lid, making the other two men jump. “Not a chance.”

Arthur looked furious. “How dare you!”

Merlin backed away, leaving Arthur sitting there perched on the piano. He declared, “I’m crazy about you, Arthur – God help me! You know that. But even I’ve got my limit and I’ve reached it. No more games, no more lies. No more Uther, no more Mordred. It’s me, just me, or that’s it. I’ll never see you again.”

“You wouldn’t!” Arthur defiantly cried.

“See this? His Majesty’s Yacht _Victoria and Albert_. Two invitations. Sails for parts unknown tomorrow morning, loaded down with military brass and other bigwigs, for some hush–hush chin–wagging. I’m playing the Upper Deck Drawing Room, with an as–yet–unannounced singer. And if they like me, I’ll be travelling the country entertaining the troops – and the Continent, too, if things go the way they seem to be going. _Now_ tell me I wouldn’t.”

Arthur thought about this for a moment, then softly protested, “But what about the cabaret? You and me together, we’re the best in London.”

Merlin was smug. “So we’ll be the best in Britain. The best in Europe!”

Mr Pettigrew stepped forward, sensing the utter seriousness of this choice. It was essential that Arthur take this opportunity for a new, honest life.

But Merlin could see that Arthur was really in a quandary. “Or not.” Merlin despaired. “Is there a decent drink in this hellhole?”

“Yes,” said Mr Pettigrew, drawing nearer still. “What would you like?”

Mr Pettigrew wasn’t quick enough, though. Merlin was already helping himself to the contents of the drinks cabinet in the service passage. He ducked his head back in to say, “It’s me who should be offering you a drink. After our unfortunate meeting this morning, I’m definitely in your debt. How do you take your whisky?”

No reply seemed necessary. Mr Pettigrew quietly observed to Arthur, “He does seem to be a little agitated about something.”

“Yes,” said Arthur. “Well, I’m afraid that might be my fault.”

“Indeed?”

Merlin yelled, “Ice pick?”

Arthur yelled back, “It’s in the drawer. Somewhere! Ice in the Frigidaire.”

“I want the pick for murder, not ice.”

Mr Pettigrew laughed. He was very impressed by Merlin.

“See?” said Arthur. “He’s _so_ dramatic. He takes love so seriously.”

“Is that a problem?” Mr Pettigrew asked rhetorically.

“Of _course_ it’s a problem…”

Merlin came back in with two whiskies, and approached Mr Pettigrew. “Merlin Emrys,” he said – introducing himself while handing over a drink and clinking the glasses together in a toast.

Mr Pettigrew was rather flustered to have all Merlin’s charm directed at him. “Er, Pettigrew. Gaius Pettigrew.”

“About time we had a formal introduction,” Merlin said with a wink. He was being quite flirtatious! Mr Pettigrew couldn’t help but soak it up, though he was aware of Arthur watching them in some annoyance. Merlin swallowed some more whisky as easily as if it were water. “Don’t you think this is a _fine_ opportunity, Gaius? Entertaining the troops, keeping up morale?”

“Very patriotic,” Mr Pettigrew agreed. Though he ventured, “Don’t such tours usually feature _female_ singers?”

“I think the idea is that a man won’t be so provocative…” Merlin laughed at Mr Pettigrew’s surprise. “Yes, I know, I know: they haven’t met Arthur yet!”

Merlin paced away, swallowing more of his whisky (while Mr Pettigrew discreetly put his own aside) – and then Merlin turned to address them both. “Well, you’re right, Arthur Pendragon: I _do_ take love seriously. Which is certainly a problem when the other fellow doesn’t pitch up for the proposal.”

Arthur finally slipped down from the piano, and came to stand beside Mr Pettigrew. “Oh, Merlin,” he said a bit sorrowfully. “It’s not as if we could actually marry.”

“Not a word from you,” Merlin said to Arthur, “thank you.” To Mr Pettigrew, he continued, “What do you think of this? Private boat on the Thames, last of the season’s raspberries, Dom Pérignon champagne. Everything.”

“Raspberries…” Mr Pettigrew almost moaned at the thought. He asked Arthur, “You didn’t appear?”

Arthur answered with heart–breaking honesty. “I was scared.”

“ _You_ were scared? How do you think a pianist without two shillings to rub together feels proposing to the most beautiful man in the world?”

Mr Pettigrew said to Merlin, “Dare I ask what happened?”

“Well, after an hour and a half bobbing around on my own, I opened the champagne. One glass didn’t seem enough. One thing led to another. Then I had a bit of a brainwave, as we floated past the Tower of London.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I’d bought him a ring, d’you see? Decided it wasn’t good enough for him, though. Too discreet. Decided it needed a bit more flash. Well, when a fellow needs a diamond, what better place to get one than the Tower of London?” Merlin sighed. “The rest is all a bit hazy, but there seems to have been an altercation with the yeoman of the guard.”

Mr Pettigrew gasped. “You didn’t.”

Merlin nodded. “Thirty days bread and water.” He turned away, poured the rest of the whisky down his throat, and put the glass on the table before coming back to them. “But you know what? Prison certainly clears the head. Pure and simple, I want you to marry me, Arthur. And it’s a one–word conversation.”

Mr Pettigrew thought this was marvellous. He turned to Arthur, knowing what his own answer would have been.

Arthur, however, was looking upset – and cornered. “What is even the point, Merlin?” he complained. “We _can’t_ marry. It’s ridiculous to even ask.”

“We _can_ marry, Arthur. You say ‘yes’ right here and now with Gaius as our witness, and I’ll be yours, to have and to hold, until death do us part – and you’ll be mine as well. What more could we possibly need?”

It was the most romantic thing Mr Pettigrew had ever heard – and he had discovered enough about himself that day to know that he’d have never been able to resist this handsome, honest, _passionately_ loving man. But Arthur shook his head, and tossed an imploring look at Mr Pettigrew, asking him to deal with this and make it go away.

Mr Pettigrew carefully asked, “Don’t you think that on such a momentous occasion a little time should be allowed?”

“Oh, that’s a stalling tactic,” protested Merlin. Then he asked Mr Pettigrew, “Is it because I’m not rich enough for him?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, it’s true. I’m wearing most of my worldly possessions.” Merlin glanced around the room in all its glory. “I could never offer this kind of blackmail.”

That was too much for Arthur – he burst out, “Oh, and who pays you for playing the piano, huh?” He’d stalked over to Merlin, and now gave him a shove. “Are you telling me you give Uther his money back after every show?”

“No! And every damned shilling I take hurts me to the bone.” Merlin caught Arthur round the waist, and pressed him close for a moment, caressed his golden hair. “Which is why it’s got to change, Arthur! Money or love? That’s the question I’m asking right now. But with you singing and me playing, we could knock the world flat.”

“Is that _all_ you want?” Arthur asked, pushing a little.

“Well, no…” Merlin looked over at Mr Pettigrew. “I shouldn’t talk about this, but I feel I can trust you. Am I right, Arthur? As soon as I saw Gaius, I felt sure I could trust him completely.”

“I felt the same,” said Arthur in a small voice.

“The entertainment gig is real,” Merlin explained. “But it’s also cover for intelligence work, you see. If they still want me after my stint in prison – though no one’s called to take away the invitations for His Majesty’s Yacht, so I guess they _do_ want me. The idea is that… Arthur inspires the deepest joy and loyalty in the troops, while I take advantage of the travel and the distraction to gather intelligence, or do whatever else the mission requires.”

“I see!” said Mr Pettigrew, his heart in his throat. It all seemed very exciting. Very dangerous. And no doubt very necessary.

“I knew you would.” Merlin turned back to his love. “You can’t tell me it’s such a _very_ bad idea. Singing brings you such happiness – and everyone who hears you feels the same. You renew their hope. What can be wrong with that?”

“A renewal of happiness and hope,” Mr Pettigrew echoed. “I suspect in coming days we’ll need that more than ever.”

“So what is it going to be? Yes or no, Arthur?”

Arthur seemed overwhelmed. He huddled within Merlin’s embrace.

Mr Pettigrew observed, “You are a most uncommonly persuasive man, Mr Emrys…”

But a somewhat damp–eyed Arthur shook his head at him.

“However, surely a gentleman should have a moment or two to consider the most important decision of his life?”

“A moment?” Merlin possessively took Arthur’s face in both hands. “He’s had a whole year.”

Mr Pettigrew reminded him, “You did say you were in my debt.”

Merlin took a breath before saying quite fairly, “Damn it, so I did.” Mr Pettigrew was more impressed than ever. “Fair enough.” Merlin let Arthur go, and backed away a pace. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll play for you today, Arthur, and for the rest of your life, if you’ll marry me. Never again if you don’t.”

Arthur was looking rather woebegone.

Merlin offered a half–bow. “See you later, Mr Pettigrew.”

“Later?” A delicious prospect!

“In my professional capacity,” he explained without really explaining. Merlin had collected his jacket, and now turned back in the doorway with his hat in his hand to address Arthur. “As for you, it’s now or never. The ship sails tomorrow morning.” And he was gone.

Mr Pettigrew drew in a long breath. “He is…”

“Impossible,” said Arthur.

“Magnificent,” said Mr Pettigrew.

“So,” Arthur responded, a little shaky but on his dignity, “ _you_ marry him.”

♦

Arthur was luxuriating in a bubble bath, while Mr Pettigrew made himself useful picking up the younger man’s discarded clothes.

“Gaius?”

“Yes?”

“Tell me the truth. How the hell am I meant to choose?”

Mr Pettigrew put the shirt and underwear in the laundry basket, and stood by the bath. “All you need do, Arthur, is apply some common sense.”

“But what if I want it all?!” Arthur protested. “With Uther, I get this magnificent apartment and my job at the Dragon. With Mordred, I get the best part on the West End stage and my chance to be a star.”

“And with Merlin?”

“With Merlin… I get the best friend I ever had.”

Which sounded very promising. “Is that _all_ Merlin is?”

“Well…” Arthur shook his head, smiled delightfully, and confided, “He _is_ rather passionate, too.”

Mr Pettigrew smiled, and sat down on the edge of the bath. Arthur was obviously remembering the passion… But after a moment or two, Mr Pettigrew said, “Merlin is offering you the chance to work as well. It’s not as if you’d have to give up your singing.”

“Entertaining the troops?” Arthur grimaced a little. “It’s not that I don’t want to support them. They’re the real heroes in this world, after all. But it’s hardly the most _glamorous_ job, is it?”

“There would be challenges, but I think you’d rise to them with aplomb, and… Arthur, I think you’ll love how much they adore you. Apart from which, you’ll be helping Merlin with his intelligence work.”

Arthur offered Mr Pettigrew a fond look, and said with sweet candour, “I know what you’re thinking. Merlin’s The One.” The weather abruptly changed to scowls. “But what about everything else? I really want to _act_. And who says I’m looking for a damned ‘husband’ right now, anyway? I’m far too young to be settling down!”

“Not everything comes along just when we want it. There are times when choices have to be made – or you certainly will miss out.”

“No,” Arthur protested. “No, I won’t accept that. I won’t.” Arthur stood and climbed out of the bath; Mr Pettigrew was ready with a towel. “This ‘all of you or none of you’ business that Merlin’s insisting on. It’s too much.”

Mr Pettigrew turned away, and went to collect a towelling robe from the other end of the room. “But he’s in love with you, Arthur. Can you say that about anyone else?”

“Uther loves me! You can’t deny that.”

“But not enough to let you go. He’s failing in a father’s first duty: to make you ready for the world, and then let you take your own place in it.”

“And Mordred said he loves me.”

“Do you really take that boy seriously?”

“Well, at least I know where I am with him! With Merlin… There’s just something about him, haven’t you felt that? I never could quite put my finger on it. He was intriguing at first… Now, I’m not so sure. D’you know, sometimes he scares me more than Uther does! I can’t see that it’s wise to try settling down with someone so… well, so _un_ settling. Do you? I mean, _really_?”

“I think you could have a wonderful future together.”

A gusted breath acknowledged that he should have seen that reply coming. Then Arthur asked, “Gaius, haven’t you ever been torn between two or three people at the same time?”

“No,” he said with a rueful laugh, “I can’t say I’ve had that particular problem.” He turned – and couldn’t help but consider Arthur standing there in nothing more than a towel and a few bubbles… He offered, perfectly genuinely, “You _are_ beautiful, Arthur.”

Arthur chuckled happily, and glanced at the round curve of his rear reflected in a convenient mirror. “Well, it’s not a bad figure, if I do say so myself.”

The two of them headed to the bedroom, where Arthur lay himself down across the bed, apparently too caught up in the conversation to bother dressing. “Have you ever been in love at all, Gaius?”

He could answer that. He knew the answer himself now. “Once.”

“And was it this ‘all of you or none of you’ business?”

“Oh, yes. It would have been exactly that, if there had ever been the chance.”

“But from him or from you?”

Mr Pettigrew hardly even had to think about that, though nothing had ever been spoken by either of them. “Both.”

“Really?” Arthur was intrigued. “Tell me.”

But Mr Pettigrew wasn’t ready for that yet. He felt as if he had to relive and reconsider it all for himself first, with that day’s newfound knowledge casting everything in such a clear light. “No… It was all such a long time ago.”

Arthur was watching him trustingly. And he was naked still.

“You’ll catch your death,” said Mr Pettigrew. “Put this on.” He helped Arthur on with the robe.

Then the front door bell rang, breaking the moment.

“Allow me,” said Mr Pettigrew.

♦

The moment’s competent confident flow was lost in another fluster as soon as Mr Pettigrew opened the front door.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a man dressed in the light grey uniform of a silver service waiter – and he bustled in past Mr Pettigrew, immediately followed by a waitress bearing bunches of long–stemmed roses in a variety of passionate colours, then two men carrying two large hampers between them, and finally a woman with a silver tray and various platters.

They were already in the apartment before Mr Pettigrew could even draw breath. “Excuse me,” he said, rather belatedly. He closed the front door, and followed them in. “Excuse me?”

“Take that through to the kitchen, please,” the head waiter was saying. The others were already organising themselves or following his orders. “And can you do the same as well?” the man asked the waitress with the tray and platters. “And tell John to pull the rug up. Party about to start soon, so chop–chop.”

“Party?” Mr Pettigrew echoed. “There’s a party?” He headed back upstairs, to find Arthur seated at the extravagant dressing table, brushing his beautiful golden hair. “Mr Pendragon?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a troop of people downstairs,” Mr Pettigrew announced, “who appear to be under the misapprehension there is to be a party here.”

“Yes.”

“Today?”

“This very evening,” Arthur replied. “Didn’t I mention it?”

“No.”

“Oh. Silly me.” He dabbed eau de toilette on that gorgeous strong throat of his.

Despite such distractions, Mr Pettigrew was – in his capacity as the new butler – rather nervous. “Will there be many people?”

“I certainly hope so, Gaius. This is The Big One.”

“The big one?”

“ _Pile on the Pepper_. Mordred’s going to make The Announcement. Now, what do you think?” Arthur stood, let his robe slip back off his shoulders, and displayed the unmentionables he’d collected from Morgana’s. “Do I get the part…?”

“Oh, yes!” Mr Pettigrew responded brightly. Then he turned and ran back down the stairs in dread.

Even the sight of Arthur dressed in a few scraps of silk that glowed the same pale gold as his skin – that revealed far more than they covered – wasn’t enough to quell Mr Pettigrew’s newfound terror.

♦


	7. 6:00 pm

The party was in full swing. Waiters and waitresses circulated bearing trays of drinks. A happy–looking Merlin was playing rather snazzy modern music on the piano, accompanied by three men on double bass, guitar and drums. The room was buzzing with society people, while a couple of army officers quietly conferred, and around the outskirts lingered… well, lingered some bohemians who were probably theatrical folk. Mr Pettigrew, meanwhile, was standing by the stairs – supposedly on duty, but actually hiding away behind the curve of the bannister.

Morgana soon spied him, of course, and came over to present him with a pale green drink in a broad–bowled glass. “My dear fellow,” she said, “you look as if you’ve never been to a cocktail party in your life.”

Which was alas all too true. Well, he hadn’t attended one without being on duty with a tray in his hand! Mr Pettigrew accepted Morgana’s offering for the sake of politeness, though he said, “Why, thank you, but I don’t drink.”

Arthur appeared just above them on the stairs in yet another superbly cut suit which showed off his figure to perfection. “Oh, it’s really not a drink,” Arthur said reassuringly. “It’s a cocktail.”

Morgana wished them both, “Good luck, darlings.” Quietly she added to Mr Pettigrew, “Agravaine’s the old one over there.”

Mr Pettigrew and Arthur both turned to look where Morgana indicated. Agravaine was sitting on a sofa, chatting with a younger man, his face just as handsome and intelligent and genial as Mr Pettigrew remembered it, his bearing just as confident and gentlemanlike…

“Work your magic,” whispered Morgana before slinking away.

Mr Pettigrew glumly ate the olive from the cocktail, considering his options. He didn’t think he’d really be doing Morgana a favour in pleading her case with Agravaine, and he certainly didn’t feel it was in Agravaine’s interests, either. They didn’t seem to be a particularly well–matched couple. But who was he to judge? He didn’t know either of them, he didn’t know their true selves – and when Mr Pettigrew himself was there at Arthur’s under false pretences, he was in no position to challenge anyone on their stated motivations.

Surely Agravaine was wise enough to have made a good choice in his intended bride, and Mr Pettigrew himself had witnessed Morgana’s distress at the engagement being called off. Those had been genuine tears, and Morgana surely wasn’t the sort to weep at a trifle. Mr Pettigrew wasn’t required to understand anything more than that.

When Mr Pettigrew lifted his head from these contemplations, he found Arthur still standing beside him looking pensive…

But before Mr Pettigrew had the chance to ask him what the matter was, in strode Mordred with a young woman on his arm. The woman was about Arthur’s age, and had something of his golden–haired beauty and guileless presence – and if that didn’t clue Mr Pettigrew in to her identity, Arthur’s fury did.

“What a damned nerve!” muttered Arthur. “Well. Time to burn the Olive Oil.” He took the cocktail from Mr Pettigrew and downed most of it in one swallow.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Mr Pettigrew asked anxiously.

“Yes.” Then a beaming Arthur headed off to greet his latest guests, with almost all of his many charms on display. (Mr Pettigrew tried manfully not to think about the barely–there unmentionables.) “Mordred, _darling_.”

“Arthur, sweetheart. Lovely to see you.” Young Mordred was rather nervous, but forged bravely on. “This is Vivian Olaf. Do you two know each other?”

The two of them glared frostily before Arthur finally extended a hand. “A pleasure.”

Vivian clasped his hand in the most insincere manner possible. “How nice to see you again.” Then she turned, and rubbed her hand up Mordred’s arm in a far friendlier manner. “Mordred and I had such a lovely lunch together today, didn’t we, darling?”

Arthur grabbed Mordred by the lapels, and swung him around to stand beside him. “Well, I _knew_ he’d have a big appetite, after last night.”

Mordred happened to be very near Mr Pettigrew now, who took the opportunity to lean in and say, “May I suggest retiring to a safe distance?”

“I think you’re absolutely right. Tin hat on!” Mordred let himself be led out onto the balcony – where he promptly turned to face Mr Pettigrew and politely introduced himself. “I’m sorry, it’s Mordred Orkney. How do you do?”

“We’ve met before, actually. You were entirely naked at the time.”

Mordred only took a moment to realise. “Gaius? Is that you? My goodness!” He frankly appraised Mr Pettigrew’s newly refurbished self. “You look _marvellous_.”

Mr Pettigrew seemed to have managed to scoop up a fresh cocktail from somewhere, and he took a giddy sip of it now, before eating the olive – all the while nodding happily at Mordred’s sweet compliments.

He was very aware, however, of the showdown currently being staged by Arthur and Vivian. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could glimpse their body language from the corner of his eye, and that was eloquent enough. Then a round of fake laughter rang out, and Mr Pettigrew knew it was time to take action. He swallowed a mouthful of the harsh gorgeous potent cocktail…

Once he’d recovered his voice, Mr Pettigrew said, “Now, Mordred, how are your deliberations over _Pile on the Pepper_ proceeding?” (He may have undermined his own serious tone by giggling a little at the alliteration.)

“Well,” Mordred admitted, “between you and me, Vivian has the most alluring singing voice. And I have to say, Daddy’s quite keen. In fact, more than keen.”

“So you’re going to give Miss Olaf the part?”

“Arthur’s going to be a bit off–colour about it all, I’m afraid.” They both ruminated over this for a long moment… before Mordred’s face cleared and he shrugged off Arthur’s disappointment with a “Hey ho!”

Mordred was just about to head once more into the breach when Mr Pettigrew caught his arm and swung him back around. Surely he could handle this charming yet callow youth, and win Arthur what he wanted. “Just _one_ question,” said Mr Pettigrew. “Does Vivian have quite the same _attachment_ to you as Arthur?”

“No. No, no, she certainly doesn’t.” Mordred glanced at him with some interest. “But do you think that was more than a passing attraction? I mean, we both know actors, Gaius. It did occur to me that it might be, you know, purely to secure the part…?”

Mr Pettigrew took another swig of the cocktail. “I have no doubt that Mr Pendragon believes that you are one of the most…”

He happened to look in through the window then, and saw Merlin playing the piano. The sight quite broke his heart, but Mr Pettigrew couldn’t change what Arthur wanted. He could only help Arthur, and hope and trust and pray that all would somehow or other be well. And of course young Mordred had declared his love for Arthur that morning. Arthur had even seemed quite happy about it. Certainly less conflicted than he’d been over Merlin’s declaration…

Mr Pettigrew took a mouthful of the drink and felt it waft straight to his head. “You are, for Arthur, unquestionably _the_ most important man in that room.”

“My dear fellow, do you really think so?”

“I do.”

Mordred was utterly delighted. “The scales have fallen from my doubting eyes!”

“So pleased to have helped.”

“Helped? You’ve just made me the happiest man in the world!” And Mordred dashed off inside, no doubt to arrange everything just as Arthur wished.

But Mr Pettigrew, left to himself, felt his face sour, and his heart cringed at what he’d just done.

At which moment Agravaine stepped up to Mr Pettigrew, and observed, “You seem to have made quite an impression on him.”

“Oh,” said Mr Pettigrew. “Yes. I do, don’t I?” He eyed the man warily, wondering if Agravaine remembered about the _froufrou_ cake landing _splat_ on his fine shoes.

It appeared not. The man offered his hand. “Agravaine de Bois.”

Mr Pettigrew shook it. “A great pleasure.”

“Have we met before? I feel sure I recognise you from somewhere.”

Mr Pettigrew hardly knew whether to be relieved or disappointed. “I don’t think so, but I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” A slight pause lengthened, in which Morgana happened to wander by inside the apartment and narrow her eyes at Mr Pettigrew – who was thus prompted to remark, “I have met your fiancée, I believe.”

“Miss Gorlois? Um… No longer my fiancée, I’m afraid.”

“Really?” It was easy to express genuine concern. “I’m so sorry. Not a permanent rift, I hope?”

“It would be ungentlemanly of me to go into the details.”

“Of course.” Mr Pettigrew finished the cocktail, and ate the olive. He felt giddy, as if he might do or say anything. Lifting his glass as if in a toast, he observed, “These things are amazing, aren’t they?”

Agravaine offered to take the empty glass. “May I?”

Mr Pettigrew found himself hoping that a refill was implied. “Why not?”

“Excuse me,” he said, before heading inside.

Morgana approached from the other flank. “Progress?” she asked tersely.

“I’m afraid not,” he replied as calmly as he might. “Nor is there likely to be.”

“Transformations work both ways, Gaius. It would take me thirty seconds to put you back in the soup kitchen queue. I told you, I never forget a face. Victoria Station.”

“Nor have I forgotten with whom you shared a taxi – and not last night but this morning.”

Morgana quietly advised, “Oh, you have. If you want to continue working for Arthur, you have.” To avoid a passing guest, Morgana switched over to Mr Pettigrew’s other side, her peacock–feather fascinator tickling across his face as she did so. “Now we all of us need things in our life. I need Agravaine for his… Well, he’s a man of connections. And you need…” She glanced away, and then finished quite nastily, “You need to stay off of the streets, I imagine.”

Mr Pettigrew was left almost gaping as Morgana stalked off. He moved over to the stone balustrade, and stared unseeing at the cityscape stretching before him.

A moment later Agravaine was there beside him with two fresh drinks. He handed one over, and gently remarked, “I see Morgana has told you all.”

“If it weren’t to commit another indiscretion, I might disclose that Miss Gorlois is…” He ate the olive for strength. “Morgana is, as Mr Pendragon would say, crazy about you.”

“To be indiscreet back, she’s rather more crazy about my position in the fashion world than she is about me.”

Ah. “A woman scorned is a dangerous thing. And a bruised heart will often speak harshly, Mr de Bois.”

Agravaine frowned over this in serious thought – but he said, “I sometimes wonder where Morgana’s heart has got to.”

Which was really rather a horrible thing to say. It was perhaps the only time Agravaine had wrong–footed himself. But again, it was easy for Mr Pettigrew to respond with the truth. “A woman with an absent heart would not shed such tears, I think.”

Agravaine was so full of disbelief that he almost laughed. “Morgana? _Shed tears_?”

Mr Pettigrew had finally had enough. “You people!” he exclaimed, putting down his drink _clink_ on the stone. “With your green drinks and your parties and – and your _subterfuges_. You’re all playing at love. One minute her, the next minute someone else. Flit, flit, flit. Well, I’m not playing,” he declared. And he stalked off inside – though not before turning back to say to the flabbergasted man, “Love is not a game!”

With appallingly ironic timing, Merlin and his musicians came to the end of a song just then, and Mr Pettigrew strode through the main room to a scatter of applause. He headed for the privacy of the alcove by the front door, and wandered back and forth for a moment, feeling a bit upset. Then he sat on the sofa there, and took a deep breath.

Arthur suddenly dashed in. “You’ve worked your magic again!” he cried in delight.

“I can’t do it,” said Mr Pettigrew quite seriously.

“You’ve already done it. Agravaine just came to ask me if he was being a cad breaking off the engagement. I’ve no idea what you said, but I think we’ve got him.”

Mr Pettigrew managed a faint smile, but felt overcome. Their schemes were all going right, and yet also so horribly wrong.

Arthur was impressed. “It must be extraordinary being you.”

“Extraordinary?” he echoed. “No. Very, very ordinary.”

Then Mordred burst in, grinning broadly, and caught Arthur’s hands in his. “Arthur, darling, is it true what Gaius said?”

Arthur beamed at Mr Pettigrew before turning back to Mordred. “Well, if Mr P said it, you can bet your shirt on it.”

“So I can tell the whole world about you and me?” the younger man babbled on. “Officially an item, what? Till death us do part?”

Mr Pettigrew watched this unfold – or unravel – in mounting distress. “What?”

“Oh…” Arthur glanced again at Mr Pettigrew, obviously discomposed. “Yes. Of course you can tell people… At the same time you announce your casting decision… sweetheart.” The endearment rang false, but Mordred didn’t seem to pick up on it. “And what better time than right now?” Arthur prompted.

“You’re absolutely right, damn it. This very minute. Come on, gorgeous, no time to waste. To horse!” he cried, before dashing off.

Arthur was looking rather stunned at what he’d done. “Well,” he eventually commented. “I suppose that was necessary.”

Mr Pettigrew tried to agree with him, speaking carefully. They were both feeling rather raw, that was evident, and momentous decisions were being made. “You wanted the part. He’d already chosen Miss Olaf.”

Arthur glanced at him in surprise and dismay.

Mr Pettigrew found it necessary to speak the truth. “No, Arthur, you mustn’t do this.”

The young man took a moment – then concluded, “Actually, I must.” And he put on his game face, and headed back into the main room.

Mr Pettigrew sagged in despair. He had a relatively uninterrupted view into the main room, and could see Mordred standing on the second or third step of the staircase to command everyone’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen!” Mordred cried.

Merlin provided a dramatic flourish on the piano to help him out. It was professionalism rather than graciousness on the other man’s part, but Mr Pettigrew’s heart sank further at the thought of what Merlin was about to hear.

“As you might know,” Mordred said to the gathered crowd, “I’m putting on _Pile on the Pepper_ at the Ambassador, don’t you know? Have I mentioned this?” he enquired ironically, to polite laughter. “As I’ve no doubt told you a hundred times already, this is the most _avant–garde_ of plays. The lead might be a Hortensia… or a Hortensius! Which creates all kinds of confusions – and doubles the number of auditions, for a start!”

Mr Pettigrew could see the tension in Arthur’s shoulders as he waited through Mordred’s interminable speech. Across the room, Vivian Olaf also waited, a polite display of interest barely masking her smug certainty.

“Anyway, it is my pleasure to announce that I have, today, cast the lead, what? Ladies and gentlemen… he is not only Hortensius in _Pile on the Pepper_ , he is also _my_ Hortensius, if you know what I mean.”

Of course as soon as Mordred had voiced the pronoun, everyone knew what his decision had been. Merlin froze in place over the piano keyboard, hands ready for a celebratory chord that he would now never play. Vivian Olaf pulled back as if slapped in the face, and then turned away. Arthur walked to the foot of the stairs, ready to claim his prize.

“Ladies and gentlemen, _your_ Hortensius and _my_ Hortensius – Arthur Pendragon!”

There was general applause. Mordred took Arthur’s hand, and brought him up the staircase and into his arms – into an embrace so romantic they were as good as kissing. No one seemed too horribly shocked by all this, perhaps inured to the irregularities of theatre folks. Vivian Olaf, however, walked out, stalking past Mr Pettigrew with nary a glance.

“Three cheers for the _avant–garde_ , in theatre and in life!” cried Mordred. “Let’s dance!”

The other three musicians struck up a lively tune, and Mordred led his leading man back down to the floor, where he spun him around –

And Arthur almost crashed right into Merlin, who had stood up from the piano. They stared at each other for a still moment, and then a furious Merlin shouldered past Arthur and strode off. He was also leaving.

“Merlin?” Mr Pettigrew tried in a tone weakened by guilt.

The man was about to sweep by and out the door – but at the last moment he faltered. “Gaius,” he said shortly. “How can it be that I have fallen so _deeply_ in love with such a shallow, self–serving –”

“ _Merlin_ ,” Mr Pettigrew chided before Merlin could say anything he’d later regret. “Arthur has a good and noble heart, despite appearances.”

“Oh!” scoffed Merlin. “The appearances are all rather fine and noble, too! And rather misleading.”

“Arthur is not just a pretty face, Merlin, as well you know. He feels as deeply as you do.”

“Then why won’t he do the right thing? Why does he always settle for playing the idiot?”

“Perhaps it’s your destiny to help him change that.”

But Merlin shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong man, Gaius! I can’t help him when he hates me so.”

And the man turned and left. For all the good he’d done, for all the use his advice had been, Mr Pettigrew might not even have existed. And in that moment, Mr Pettigrew thought that perhaps it would have been better for everyone if he hadn’t.

But then after another moment dragged by, Agravaine stepped into the alcove, and with gentlemanly reticence indicated the sofa on which Mr Pettigrew sat. “May I join you?”

“Please,” Mr Pettigrew managed to say.

There was a rumbling noise from somewhere, perhaps from the street below the balcony. It filled the spaces between the musical notes. For Mr Pettigrew, however, there was silence, a gently welcoming silence, gifting him with time in which he might speak to this man of substance and intelligence – this man whose eyes, like Merlin’s, promised not only that he was a safe harbour but that he was also the dangerous exhilarating ocean…

Mr Pettigrew turned and was about to speak – when he noticed the glass beading on the lampshade quivering and then tinkling together. The younger people were excitedly rushing out to the balcony as a squadron of planes flew low overhead. The two older men remained exactly where they were, while the rumbling shook Mr Pettigrew through all five senses.

Eventually Mr Pettigrew quietly observed, “They don’t remember the last one.”

“No,” said Agravaine. “They don’t.” He sighed. “We have a young friend in America at the moment… Well, two young friends, Lance and Gwen. They’re on their honeymoon. I took Lance aside at the wedding and told him not to come back, for Gwen’s sake, if nothing else. But he will. He’ll come back and enlist. He’s the noble type.”

“God keep him,” murmured Mr Pettigrew.

The two of them exchanged a glance, full of knowledge and yet also of hope; a poignancy sweetening the bitter memories. It wasn’t nostalgia for all the horrors and the deprivations of war, so much as a shared determination to rise to the challenges with as much courage and dignity as could be mustered.

Agravaine and Mr Pettigrew, the latter thought, had somehow formed a connection. Whether Agravaine could possibly know how much he was admired was another matter altogether.

It was also somewhat of a moot point.

Morgana arrived, and stood in the doorway. Her elegant figure was displayed to perfection. “Arthur’s name in lights at the Ambassador,” she remarked. “What do you think of that?”

“Well,” said Agravaine, “it’s certainly what Arthur’s always wanted.” Though there was something in his manner that hinted he also had misgivings about the outcome of this party. “You two ladies must have your way,” he said gallantly.

“Must we?” she responded wistfully.

“Of course.”

Morgana sighed, and then continued in precise clipped tones – which Mr Pettigrew knew came from the same place as her earlier tears, though of course they weren’t nearly so demonstrative – “Agravaine, my dear, I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if last night’s misunderstanding got in the way of something so, so important to us both. I was wondering, could you walk me home and let me explain?”

Agravaine was too considerate to let even a beat go by before responding, “Of course, my dear. Of course.” He stood, and then turned to Mr Pettigrew to offer a slight bow and say, “It was nice to have met you.”

Mr Pettigrew acknowledged this with a smile and a nod, conscious of Morgana’s piercing gaze upon him. No doubt she had guessed that Mr Pettigrew had developed a personal interest in Agravaine. No doubt she also knew how hopeless it must be – but of course she’d be concerned that it might affect Mr Pettigrew’s advice to him.

Well, it was all perfectly impossible now. Agravaine was escorting his fiancée out through the vestibule, as she remarked, “Did you see the planes? Weren’t they magnificent?” Agravaine held the front door open for Morgana, and they were gone.

A quiet moment passed.

And then a waiter appeared, bearing a tray of delicacies. “Sir?”

Under the circumstances, Mr Pettigrew couldn’t even bring himself to sigh ‘ _At last_ …’ All he’d eaten that day was a portion of sausage, two slices of cucumber and a few olives. He’d been starving for hours. Yet now he couldn’t even stomach the thought of food. “Not now, thank you,” he managed to say.

He sighed. And the party wound on, until eventually it wound down, and Arthur’s apartment was empty again, and quiet, and softly lit by a few lamps with the darkness gathering outside.

♦


	8. 8:30 pm

The dark clouds had broken apart and the rain was pouring down. Mr Pettigrew was collecting a few last glasses onto a silver tray. Everything else was clean and set to rights now. Arthur was sitting on a sofa, quietly watching him, and looking quite relaxed and content.

“Well, what do you know?” Arthur eventually said. “It will be my last night singing at the club. I’m going to be a star!”

Mr Pettigrew didn’t respond.

“Aren’t you going to congratulate me?”

“I have done you a disservice,” Mr Pettigrew said.

“No, you’ve done exactly what I asked,” Arthur replied. “That’s your job.”

“It may well be my job, but what I have done is untrue to you and untrue to me. You have lost a man who loves you for who you are, not for who you pretend to be.”

Arthur bit at that. “I won’t be pretending to be a fine actor! I don’t appreciate you discounting my talent – or my ambitions!”

“I _do_ understand, Arthur. I have ambitions myself, though rather modest ones. But a man who really loves you is a rarer and more precious thing than a part in a play.”

“You don’t know the theatre business,” Arthur complained, “no matter how you fooled Mordred into thinking you do. This is a once–in–a–lifetime opportunity –”

“Yes, it is.”

“– and who are _you_ to tell me what’s best for my life?”

“I’m nobody,” he admitted.

“But apparently you’re an expert on love!”

It was a moment before Mr Pettigrew found his voice again. “No. I have no one. I am not an expert on love. I am an expert on the _lack_ of love, Arthur. And that is a fate from which I wish most fervently to save you.”

Mr Pettigrew headed for the kitchen with the tray of glasses.

“Gaius –” Arthur said quietly, shifting around to address him directly.

Mr Pettigrew paused. “No pity, please. I endure quite well, thank you.” And he kept walking.

Outside, the thunder rolled.

♦


	9. 10:30 pm

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

“The Golden Dragon, thanks,” Arthur said. Which was Uther’s club, of course. Arthur and Mr Pettigrew were silent for a while as the taxi drove through the dark rainy streets – until Arthur finally asked, “Do you know what my grandfather was, Gaius?”

“Was he also in the entertainment business?”

“He was a fishmonger.” Arthur sat there with a wry half–smile, letting that sink in. “He sold his produce from a stall on the docks at first. But business grew, he rented a shop, and then he bought into a fish–and–chip shop, which became a tearoom, and then a number of tearooms across London – and so on and so forth, and then my father wanted to go more upmarket still, so he turned that into restaurants and nightclubs.”

“I see.”

“Uther is new money,” Arthur continued, “but he wants to camouflage it as old. Well, he says camouflage; I say tarnish!”

Mr Pettigrew managed a smile for Arthur’s clever jest.

“No one else in the world knows where I come from, except for Merlin. He doesn’t judge me. Not for that.”

“No,” said Mr Pettigrew. “He wouldn’t.”

“But you do.”

“Me? I certainly do not.”

“Oh, you think you don’t, but you do. You believe I should simply be myself, grandson of a fishmonger, and nothing more.” Arthur smiled a little, forgiving him. “Uther wants me to live like an aristocrat – he doesn’t want me to work. He wants nothing but leisure and finery and pleasure in my life.”

“But you sing at his club –”

“He humours my performances for now. With Merlin backing me, I’ve become quite popular, and that brings in the crowds, so he really can’t complain. But it’s in return for me humouring him. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said Mr Pettigrew, rather faintly.

“And the thing is, Gaius, I don’t _own_ anything. Uther’s presents are provisional – or so frivolous as to be worthless. For all the fancy apartments and fashion shows, do you know how close I am to having nothing at all? Every day I wake up and I think, if I make the wrong move, I could be out on that street, with no clothes, no food, no job – and no friends. Do you know what that’s like?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You do?” Arthur confirmed.

“In that at least, we are alike.”

Arthur’s eyes were rather damp. “Oh God! I can’t sing if I get all teary. My throat will close right up!”

Mr Pettigrew reached to cup his dear face, to sooth him. “That will never do, my dear.”

The two of them shared a quiet moment, friends despite everything.

Until the driver called, “Here we are, sir!”

They had pulled up just outside the club. A gold neon arrow pointed down a flight of cast iron steps leading to the basement level of a solidly imposing building.

Arthur murmured in trepidation, “ _Oh God_ …”

♦

The club was scintillating in crimson and gold. Mr Pettigrew was surprised to find it brightly lit, but he supposed that was intended to show off the luxury. A band was playing a brassily sizzling jazz number, and couples were turning smartly about the dance floor. Three or four banks of tables climbed up from the floor around every wall, each filled with conviviality. Everyone there was gorgeous and young (or at least the attractive kind of mature) and dressed to the nines.

Arthur made an entrance, pausing in the frame provided by the doorway at the top of a shallow staircase that led down inside. He was looking so dapper and so beautiful in yet another form–fitting suit. Tuxedos might have been made for Arthur’s figure. Mr Pettigrew could well understand why no one was able to resist him. As Arthur walked confidently down the steps, Mr Pettigrew followed modestly in his wake.

Then Uther was there, standing just below them on the stairs, barring the way, and it was immediately obvious to anyone who knew him that Arthur’s confident poise was built on rather shaky foundations.

“My darling boy,” Uther greeted his son with proud affection.

“Uther,” said Arthur nervously, his fingers and thumb fretting again with his silver ring. “Father. Hello.”

“I’ve heard the news, darling. Congratulations. It’s the big time, isn’t it!”

Arthur sagged a little in relief. “I thought you’d be furious.”

“Furious, me? Why?” That urbane old silver–haired fox continued, speaking very directly to Arthur, “No, you and me, we’re the same. We both get what we want by… _bending_ a little, don’t we?”

Arthur’s face paled.

Uther advanced up the stairs, and ran a possessive arm around Arthur’s waist. He even went so far in this public place as to tuck his head in against Arthur’s throat, to press a kiss just below Arthur’s earlobe. “I _get_ it, Arthur. It’s business.”

The younger man was vastly uncomfortable. With a roughened voice, he began, “No, Father, I…”

Uther straightened up, but his arm kept Arthur near. He announced in tones that brooked no refusal, “I’ll see you back at mine later.”

And he walked away to go take care of his own business.

Arthur was shaking with fury… and with shame. “How can he just – His own son! He treats me like I’m a common –” He stopped, and turned to Mr Pettigrew. “You don’t think of me like that, do you?”

“Of course not,” he retorted with utter honesty.

And Arthur smiled at him, a smaller smile than his usual, and all the more genuine for it. The two of them smiled at each other, as truly loving friends.

Then Mordred’s unmistakeable tones were crying “Arthur!” – and Arthur turned to respond in kind, “Darling!”

Arthur and Mr Pettigrew headed for a booth just off the dance floor, where Mordred was sitting with another very young man. Arthur took the opportunity to show himself off a little on the walk over.

“Darling, you look perfect, what? Doesn’t he?” Mordred pulled Arthur down to sit close beside him on the curved velvet–padded bench. Arthur went happily, his body language now infinitely obliging as Mordred wound an arm round his waist and hauled him nearer still.

Mr Pettigrew couldn’t help but notice that Vivian Olaf was watching from one of the more dimly–lit booths at the back of the room. She was obviously unimpressed, and Mr Pettigrew couldn’t say that he really blamed her. Her companions must have been the most subdued people in the room.

His attention was recalled by Mordred, who was bubbling on, “Gaius, how lovely. To you, I owe a special debt of gratitude. Champagne!” he cried, lifting a chilled bottle from a silver bucket, and brandishing it. “Champagne is the only thing as delightful as my dear Arthur. Darling, come on, finish your glass. There’s plenty.”

Morgana approached, sashaying along the edge of the dance floor, happily showing off a rather splendid engagement ring. Agravaine followed her, rather more soberly. Mr Pettigrew kept his head down, not wanting to impose. Luckily the other young fellow at the table provided a distraction by offering to pour Mr Pettigrew a glass of champagne – which he gratefully accepted.

As soon as she reached the table, Morgana swooped in to greet Arthur with a kiss, and announced, “It’s all back on.”

“Darling, that’s marvellous,” responded Arthur.

And Mr Pettigrew was somewhat relieved to see that Arthur looked genuinely pleased about the match. He supposed that if Arthur, nephew and honorary cousin, was happy for Agravaine and Morgana, then there must be something true at the core of the relationship.

Arthur turned to Mordred. “Did you hear the news? These two lovebirds are finally tying the knot.”

“Congrats, dear fellow! When’s the happy day, what?”

Agravaine was hardly Mr Pettigrew’s idea of a lovebird, but he looked pleased enough. “Well, we were going to keep it to ourselves for the present, but you know the ladies.”

“Oh, do I ever!” cried young Mordred, laughing and catching Arthur up closer still to indicate that he got the joke. “The lady cousins! A deadly force.”

“Sorry, darling,” Morgana offered to Agravaine, not sounding at all apologetic. “Bursting with joy. Couldn’t keep it in.”

Agravaine was gentleman enough to make a point of greeting Mr Pettigrew. “It’s nice to see you again, sir.”

“May I add my congratulations?” Mr Pettigrew responded politely though sincerely.

Morgana was too triumphant to have any patience with the social niceties. “Let’s dance!” she cried.

“If you don’t mind, Morgana,” said Agravaine, “I have a –”

“Oh, you do drone on, dear,” Morgana said – before addressing the young man who’d been sitting with Mordred. “Leonard will take me for a spin, won’t you, Lenny?”

“Be delighted, Morgana,” the fellow responded. Mr Pettigrew stood to let him out of the booth.

Morgana insisted, “Arthur, Mordred, come on.”

“Of course!” cried Arthur, obviously in the mood for celebrating.

The four young things headed out onto the dance floor, and were soon gliding about in each other’s arms with an accomplished graceful verve.

Mr Pettigrew sat down again, and Agravaine sat opposite him. Mr Pettigrew kept his gaze lowered, for fear of what it would reveal to the other man. He probably seemed rather bashful, while Agravaine looked very dapper, very much the sophisticate, as he sat back at his ease on the other side of the booth smoking a cigarette. Morgana, meanwhile, was watching Agravaine with a triumphant smile as she danced in Leonard’s arms.

The number finished to general applause. Mr Pettigrew saw that Arthur was heading towards some red velvet curtains which presumably concealed the backstage area. Arthur was, of course, also applauding the band. Mr Pettigrew didn’t suppose he could follow, so that left him stuck where he was. With the dauntingly marvellous manly Agravaine…

“Well,” Agravaine eventually remarked, “as we have no conversation, I have no option but to ask you for the next dance.”

“What!” Mr Pettigrew murmured in protest. “Two men…?”

Agravaine shrugged urbanely. “No one seemed to bat an eyelid over Mordred squiring Arthur around the floor. Maybe we should take our cue from the younger fellows for once.”

Mr Pettigrew tried again. “Alas, I can dance nothing but the waltz.”

But that didn’t work, despite the fact that Mr Pettigrew had never before heard of a blues waltz or a jazz waltz. Agravaine’s gaze shifted to the band as they struck up a number in triple time. Then he looked back at Mr Pettigrew – who couldn’t help but smile in amusement.

Nothing more needed to be said. Agravaine stood, and invited Mr Pettigrew to join him – and so Mr Pettigrew led the way out to a relatively empty space on the dance floor. But when he finally turned to Agravaine, his discomfort must have been plain.

“Are you all right?” Agravaine asked in concern.

“Yes,” he said – before admitting, “Well, to take a woman’s escort…”

Agravaine stepped forward, assuming the lead of course, and he welcomed Mr Pettigrew into his arms. “You didn’t take me, _I_ took _you_.”

They were already spinning about effortlessly, fitting together perfectly… Mr Pettigrew kept his face averted, but let a happy sigh escape his lips.

“I’m sure Morgana can cope,” Agravaine continued.

Mr Pettigrew caught a glimpse of Morgana, still dancing with Leonard, and watching them with an enigmatic expression. He shivered a little at her icy beauty. Though he also remembered the moment in which those sharp eyes had thawed into tears over the loss of Agravaine.

“What happened to that particularly beautiful scarf you were wearing at the fashion show…?”

“What are you talking about?” Mr Pettigrew tried, dismay sinking through him, for if Agravaine remembered the scarf then he must remember the cake.

Agravaine chuckled. “Despite your most elegant transformation, my dear sir, the body is still the same.”

“Mr de Bois,” he chided. After a moment he added, “I had heard you were a connoisseur of the _female_ figure…”

“Ah… Indeed I am.” Agravaine punctuated this admission by spinning them about for a particularly giddy moment. When they settled into a regular rhythm again, he said, “I might add, however, that… knowing Arthur so intimately as he grew up into a sure and certain sense of who he was… eventually brought home to me the… variety of possibilities.”

Mr Pettigrew shot him a cold challenging glance. “And when you say _intimately_ …?”

“I mean nothing untoward. He is my godson, and I love him dearly.”

“There is another who might say much the same, and yet mean something very untoward indeed.”

“I know,” Agravaine softly replied. “You mustn’t think that Arthur’s friends unanimously approve of the situation. Indeed,” he continued in stronger tones, “if anything good is to come of this venture at the Ambassador, it might be that Mordred is… if not the answer, then the beginning of the answer.”

“I see,” said Mr Pettigrew, glancing once more at this man, with slightly more approval this time.

Agravaine seemed relieved at knowing he had at least passed this important test, no matter how narrowly.

Mr Pettigrew quietly confessed, as if his challenge had never been issued, “I know what you mean. Meeting Arthur today, and becoming acquainted with him, has brought me to a… closer acquaintance with my own self.”

Agravaine laughed under his breath, as if too delighted not to. “And the eyes are the same, as well,” he smoothly continued as if his compliments had never been interrupted. “Most fetching, if I may say.”

“I’m not really sure you should say.” For despite their accord, there was Morgana to consider.

“I’m sorry. Professional habit. A bad one.” Agravaine sighed. “I have to remember that you’re not like these people.”

Mr Pettigrew lifted his face to look at the man directly for the first time. “Am I terribly old–fashioned?”

“Indeed you are.”

Mr Pettigrew nodded in resignation. There was no hope for him.

Yet Agravaine added, in softly flirting tones. “And all the better for it.”

Mr Pettigrew smiled, but glanced away again.

“Am I making you feel uncomfortable?”

After a moment he admitted, “This is the most comfortable I’ve felt all day.” And at last Mr Pettigrew let himself relax into the arms of this marvellous man, let himself be squired around the room for all to see by Agravaine de Bois.

♦

The perfect moment lasted forever and ended too soon. The musical number closed with a flourish, and the two men parted, applauding the band as was their due. Mr Pettigrew decided that discretion was the better part of valour and all that, and kept backing away until he could at last turn and stand on his own by the booth. Agravaine’s gaze was lowered, but Mr Pettigrew knew that the man was all too aware of him leaving… and Agravaine didn’t follow.

The band now played a smoothly building introduction, and Uther climbed onto a small stage in the centre of the room. There was a grand piano, and a microphone into which Uther spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen!” He gestured rather abruptly at the band, indicating they should be quiet now. When there was a suitable hush, he continued, “Welcome to Sir Uther Pendragon’s Golden Dragon.”

There was applause in which Mr Pettigrew didn’t join.

“I’m delighted to introduce you tonight to a very talented young friend of mine…” Uther smirked. “And he can sing, too.”

Mr Pettigrew winced, and tried not to imagine how that little sortie would have flayed Arthur’s nerves.

“It’s my pleasure to bring you the ablest and noblest young man in town… Sir Arthur!”

Arthur appeared through the red velvet curtains, bearing a bright smile, and walking confidently towards the stage, with Merlin following self–effacingly in Arthur’s wake. There was a great deal of welcoming applause and a buzz of excitement – including from Mr Pettigrew, who couldn’t help but feel very proud of his young friend. Uther reached to take Arthur’s hand and help him up onto the stage, while Merlin took his seat at the piano.

Arthur reached the microphone, and said to the audience, “You’re very kind. Thank you. Really.” He was smiling in gratitude, gracefully finding that perfect point between modesty and honest enjoyment.

With the audience’s attention on Arthur, Uther took the opportunity to say something to Merlin. It was apparent from his expression that Uther intended it to be cutting, and Merlin certainly felt it slice home.

Then Uther was back in ‘public’ mode. He leant in close beside Arthur to announce into the microphone, “To get us in the mood, we’ll start with _Hot Shoe Shimmy_.”

But Merlin had a stubborn set to his face. His lovely long fine fingers crashed a discordant chord from the piano, startling everyone. Taking advantage of the fact that Uther had already withdrawn to sit at a table near the band, Merlin in turn announced, “Change of programme. _If I Didn’t Care_.”

Mr Pettigrew was watching closely enough to see Arthur discreetly shake his head _no_ at Merlin – but it was already too late. Merlin was playing the opening notes, they could hardly change their minds again about the song, and all too soon Arthur’s cue approached. He found his game face from somewhere, and settled himself at the microphone, ready to seduce the audience – as if they weren’t already eager for the ravishment.

> If I didn’t care… more than words can say  
> If I didn’t care… would I feel this way?  
> If this isn’t love then why do I thrill?  
> And what makes my head go round and round  
> While my heart stands still?

Mr Pettigrew was enchanted, from the very first phrase. Arthur’s voice was clear and sweet, and he sang this verse with intonation as light as a gentle spring shower. There was a slight hesitancy in his phrasing as if the melody was being tentatively led by the piano’s accompaniment. This, despite the whole day revolving around questions of ambition and love, was Mr Pettigrew’s first experience of Arthur’s talents – and he was thoroughly charmed.

Merlin’s accompaniment expanded for the second verse, and the band’s percussionist lightly kicked in with a cymbal, while Arthur’s performance slowly deepened and became more heartfelt.

> If I didn’t care would it be the same?  
> Would my every prayer begin and end with just your name?  
> And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare?  
> Would all this be true if I didn’t care for you?

By which point Arthur was so close to tears that he’d hardly managed to finish the last line. He turned to Merlin, silently pleading with him to end the song.

Merlin frowned at Arthur in concern, lightened the piano accompaniment again, and took over the vocal. He also had a lovely voice, though rougher and smokier than Arthur’s. Arthur watched him, distressed and grateful and unutterably vulnerable.

> If I didn’t care would it be the same?  
> Would my every prayer begin and end with just your name?

Merlin offered Arthur a smile, and Arthur at last turned back to the microphone to take up the vocals again.

> And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare?

Arthur couldn’t quite manage that last high note – it came out as more of a wounded cry. Which was all it took for Mr Pettigrew to become rather close to weeping, too.

> Would all this be true if I didn’t care for you?

As Merlin played the last notes of the song, Arthur turned to him, and they looked at each other. Merlin was solemn, repentant, undone. Then he smiled a little, as if he couldn’t help himself. Even in the midst of Merlin’s heartbreak, Arthur still made him happy. Mr Pettigrew couldn’t quite see Arthur’s expression, but he imagined how overcome he must feel.

The entire room was hushed, everyone was dwelling breathless in this moment of pure emotion that Arthur and Merlin had created together.

But Mr Pettigrew himself was overcome, as well, and at last he couldn’t contain it any longer. He burst into applause – and the audience followed. The sound ebbed and rolled around the room like an ocean tide.

Mr Pettigrew caught a glimpse of where Uther sat looking sceptical and confused. He seemed to be the only person in the room who hadn’t understood, who hadn’t been moved.

After another moment, Arthur gathered himself and turned back to the microphone with a beautiful bright smile. “Thank you. Thank you. Really.”

Merlin had his head down, as if exhausted.

“Well,” Arthur continued, “let’s try something a little more upbeat, shall we?”

But then the lights dimmed, and an air raid siren wailed.

Panic ensued. All but the emergency lights went out. There were cries – tables were overturned, glasses smashed – people hurried towards the exits.

Arthur had glanced about him once, and then abruptly sat down on the edge of the stage. It was dark there now, in the centre of the room.

And Merlin had left the piano, but he wasn’t at Arthur’s side. He was trying to reassure people, trying to calm them. “Ladies and gentlemen, this _is_ an air raid shelter!”

And it was true, in effect; they were in a basement below a very solid building. There was probably nowhere safer to be.

“Sir,” Merlin said to a man escorting a woman towards the door. “Sir, stay…”

“I’m going home,” the man insisted.

Merlin gestured at the man’s companion. “You don’t want to put your wife in danger.”

“My wife? She doesn’t know I’m here.”

Merlin shook his head, and gave up. Yet still he didn’t go to Arthur, who was sitting there quite alone now, and in the dark.

Mr Pettigrew took a lit candle from a nearby table, and carried it over to Arthur. Sat down beside him on the edge of the stage. “I’m here, Arthur. I’m here with you.”

“Gaius, it’s really happening, isn’t it?”

“This is just a drill,” Mr Pettigrew reassured him. “I’m sure it’s just a drill.”

“But it won’t always be.”

“No.”

“We’re going to war.” The young man sounded so heartbreakingly bleak.

“Yes, we are,” Mr Pettigrew said, low and even. He turned to Arthur so that they could talk directly. “We are, and that is why you must not waste a second of this precious life. Listen to me. I _did_ love once. I barely understood at the time, and neither did he, but it was love.”

Arthur was watching him, hanging on his every word.

“Maybe one day we would have managed to work it out between us. But he died, Arthur. In the mud in Belgium. A good, solid man. I should have gone with him, of course, I should have taken care of him –”

“But, no,” Arthur whispered. “Then you might have died, too.”

“There were times I wished I had.” Mr Pettigrew sighed. “The world felt such an empty place without him. You would have called him dull, no doubt,” he continued – and they shared a poignant amusement – “but he smiled whenever he saw me, and we could have built a life on that. Your heart knows the truth, Arthur,” he concluded. “Trust it, for life is short.”

A tear welled and ran down Arthur’s cheek. But he smiled, and nodded. Mr Pettigrew’s point had finally been made. Arthur got up, and went to find his man. “Merlin?”

Mr Pettigrew sat there alone, feeling sad yet content. He had at last managed to do the right thing, and to good effect. It was up to Merlin and Arthur now.

The club seemed empty around him, and Mr Pettigrew heard Arthur carefully circling back around the stage, calling, “Merlin!”

Then the lights suddenly switched back on, and the whole place was harshly exposed.

Arthur gasped in shock. “Oh!”

Mr Pettigrew got up and spun around to see what the problem was. He prayed… Surely nothing could have happened to Merlin…

No, it was Mordred at whom Arthur was staring. Mordred sitting in a booth, with Vivian Olaf straddled across his lap, kissing him passionately.

“Arthur!” cried Mordred, while Vivian tried to rearrange her dress. She kept her face averted from Arthur, but she didn’t budge from Mordred’s lap. The young man stuttered on in some embarrassment. “My God. I… Well, nothing for nineteen years and then two in one day, what!”

Arthur just stared some more, looking rather blank now. So much for Mordred’s protestations of love, anyway!

But the young man wasn’t entirely lost to profligacy. “I’m so sorry,” he said to Arthur, quite genuinely. “The part’s still yours, darling.”

Vivian froze at this – and Mordred looked at her in sudden dread.

Arthur, however, must have decided to be magnanimous. “Well, that’s all right, Mordred. You enjoy your Hortensia. In _every_ way.”

And he turned back around, to resume his search for Merlin.

Other people were starting to emerge from wherever they’d hidden. Uther got up to announce over the microphone, “It’s just a drill, ladies and gentlemen, it’s just a drill. This is the safest place in London! Come on,” he continued with great though rather forced cheer, “let’s have some drinks on the house. And some music, please!”

The band’s pianist appeared from somewhere, and struck up a rollicking number. Soon the whole band joined in.

“Merlin?” Arthur called again.

Mr Pettigrew went to peer through the red velvet curtains at the backstage area, but there was no one there. He emerged again – and spotted Merlin at the same time that Arthur did. Merlin was climbing the staircase, on his way out with his hands jammed in his trouser pockets.

“Merlin, wait!” cried Arthur.

Merlin stopped, and turned back around – but only to say, “You’ve made your decision, Arthur. I hope you’ll be happy.”

Arthur started following him up the stairs. “No, Merlin, _wait_. You have –”

But suddenly Uther was there, grasping Arthur’s arms and dragging him near. “Where do you think you’re sneaking off to?” he snarled. “The night is young. You have the rest of a set to sing.”

Arthur asserted himself, though falteringly. “No, Uther. Father. I don’t think so.”

“Nobody walks off my stage.”

Mr Pettigrew’s heart was in his mouth. That a man should speak to his son – or his lover! – thus. Uther was the worst kind of tyrannical bully.

Merlin had been watching Arthur in concern, and now came down again, just one or two steps closer. “He said no.”

Uther growled at Merlin. “What, and he does what _you_ say?”

“Never once, as a matter of fact,” Merlin replied very clearly – “but that’s not the point. The point is he doesn’t want to sing. End of story.”

Arthur was gazing up at Merlin, obviously impressed by his unexpected champion.

Uther insisted, “Let’s go, Arthur.”

Bravely, Arthur said, “No.”

Merlin offered in somewhat wavering tones, “I’m warning you, Uther Pendragon.”

“ _You_ , warning _me_?” Uther laughed in disbelief, and returned to his son. “After you, Arthur.”

A moment stretched in which Arthur and Merlin each looked at the other – vulnerable, anxious, yearning. They each desperately needed the other to be strong.

But then, finally, when Merlin did nothing, Arthur slowly turned and took a step or two back down towards the stage.

Well, that wouldn’t do at all!

“Sock him in the jaw!” cried Mr Pettigrew.

“What?!” chorused Arthur, Uther and Merlin.

Mr Pettigrew gestured: _Just do it, Merlin!_

Merlin twigged – and took a hard swing at Uther, who spun around bent in half by the blow.

Mr Pettigrew indulged himself in a grin. It served the bully right.

Arthur rushed to Merlin’s side, gently taking his right hand to cradle it in his own, while Merlin grumbled, “I’m a pianist, damn it. This could ruin me.”

Uther, however, wasn’t done yet. He stood up tall again – “Why, you pathetic…” – and he took his turn to swing at Merlin – who went down hard on his back, Arthur falling with him still protectively cradling his hand.

“Darling!” said Arthur.

“This is _your_ fault,” Merlin complained.

“Is the offer still open?” Arthur asked.

But Uther was in the mood for a proper fight now. “Get up!” he cried.

Merlin set his jaw, and got up – only to be promptly laid out again.

“Well?” said Arthur, still lying there beside him on the stairs. “Is it yes or no?”

“What?” Merlin asked, obviously still somewhat dazed from taking two punches.

“Are you going to damned well marry me or not?”

Mr Pettigrew watched anxiously as a silence stretched.

Merlin was staring at Arthur in disbelief. But Arthur’s impatient sincerity didn’t waver.

And then at last Merlin believed, and he promptly rediscovered his joy, his manhood. He stood up and roundhoused Uther – who finally went down for the count.

The victorious Merlin reached to help Arthur up to his feet, and then swept him into a romantic embrace. “Yes,” he answered. “God help me. Yes.”

And they kissed, to Mr Pettigrew’s everlasting joy.

And everyone in the club applauded. Everyone (except for the unconscious Uther) actually applauded.

When the kiss finally broke, it dawned on Arthur and Merlin that the people there approved and were happy for them. Their surprise soon turned to pleasure as they looked around at their audience. Mr Pettigrew could only ascribe this general acceptance to the pure and honest emotion Arthur and Merlin had created with their song. Whoever had been moved by that could hardly fail to support them now.

Merlin lifted a hand, and for a moment Mr Pettigrew imagined there were fireworks going off in the vaulted ceiling over everyone’s heads. He would have attributed it to a hallucination brought on by hunger, but the others in the room laughed and applauded some more, as if it were all a not unexpected part of the celebrations.

Well, in any case, it seemed that Mr Pettigrew’s job was done at last. He didn’t want to get in the way of the newly–bound lovers, so he slipped through the backstage curtains, and headed through the dressing room, following the ‘WAY OUT’ sign towards the stage door.

He emerged into a closed–off alley that was littered with old chairs and props and other flotsam. It seemed that the rain had eased off, although the air was still damp. Before he’d got halfway down the alley, though, Mr Pettigrew saw that the gates across the entrance were securely padlocked.

He turned back towards the door, but then hesitated. He didn’t want to be a distraction for Arthur, or an interruption. The two young men needed to be alone together for a little while, to reinforce their freshly–grasped understanding; the last thing they wanted was a chaperone. Instead of going back inside, Mr Pettigrew found a sofa under a roofed area of the alley that had been protected from the weather, and he sat down to wait for a little while, until he could be sure that Merlin and Arthur had gone.

A moment later, Agravaine emerged from the stage door, obviously having followed him. Agravaine looked up – and Mr Pettigrew did, too – to see searchlights stabbing and sweeping the skies.

Mr Pettigrew said, “I don’t think I can bear it again.”

Agravaine walked over to stand near him, and quietly asked, “Did you lose many?”

“Just one,” he said lightly. He knew Agravaine would understand that it was the one who mattered most. “You?”

“Almost… every school friend I had.” Agravaine moved a lampshade out of the way, and sat down on the sofa beside Mr Pettigrew. “One tries to forget.”

“If only one could.”

“You know,” Agravaine continued, “I distracted myself with ridiculous things… Youth, parties, lingerie. I mean, I trained in socks, for goodness sake.”

“Socks?” Mr Pettigrew echoed, startled.

“There’s a great deal of engineering in a gentleman’s sock, I’ll have you know. The stitching of the toe, the turning of the heel… By comparison, designing a brassiere is a piece of cake. Not,” he added wryly, “that there aren’t compensations.”

“None of them over twenty, I imagine.” Mr Pettigrew managed to strike exactly the right note: there was no point in pretending that he wasn’t prim, but he said it with a humour that indicated empathy rather than judgement.

“And all very easy on the eye,” Agravaine concurred with a grateful smile. “But you know what?” he said somewhat more seriously. “I’m done with it. I’m going back to gentlemen’s hosiery. You know who you are with an honest pair of socks.”

“You most certainly do,” said Mr Pettigrew.

[](http://th09.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/f/2013/175/c/1/c1ea2177c700989453ceff61d562d190-d6a97lu.jpg)   
_Mutual Appreciation_

They considered each other for a long lovely moment. There was no hint of them drawing close together for a kiss or anything like that. But they gifted themselves a moment in which to enjoy their unexpected friendship and mutual appreciation.

A moment which was interrupted by Morgana appearing. The young woman threw wide the stage door and strode towards them in a manner that somehow elegantly combined stalking and sauntering. “Told you about Gerry, has he?” Morgana demanded.

Agravaine raised a brow, and sat back to hear what more she had to say.

“Didn’t take you long to move on, did it, Agravaine?”

“Hello, Morgana,” he said.

“Did he also tell you that he hangs around the soup kitchen at Victoria Station? A tramp masquerading as some sort of butler, my God…”

Well. That was that. He’d known the adventure couldn’t last for ever. It was a wonder it had lasted even this long.

Mr Pettigrew stood, not avoiding Morgana’s sharp gaze – and then he turned to smile at Agravaine, and say politely, “Goodbye, Mr de Bois.”

“Goodnight, Mr Pettigrew,” Agravaine acknowledged with a gentlemanly warmth. “Thank you for being such a good friend to Arthur.”

Mr Pettigrew acknowledged this with a grateful nod, then walked steadily back to the stage door, and went inside.

The other two remained silent until Mr Pettigrew had closed the door behind him – but then, without intending to eavesdrop, Mr Pettigrew heard Agravaine say, “No, actually, he didn’t. Neither about that, nor about you and Gerry. But I’m grateful for the truth –”

By which time Mr Pettigrew was through the dressing room, and could hear no more. He kept his head discreetly down, and quickly made his way through the club towards the exit.

♦


	10. 5:00 am

Mr Pettigrew walked slowly towards Onslow Mansions in the very early morning. A truck passed him by, laden with milk cans, but almost no one else was stirring yet.

When he got upstairs, Mr Pettigrew found that the door to apartment number 71 was unlocked, and so he let himself in, and quietly called, “Hello? Arthur?”

The place seemed empty. Well, either that or the occupants were still abed and asleep. Mr Pettigrew swallowed down his disappointment, and went to fetch his coat.

He tried once more before leaving. “Mr Pendragon?”

Still nothing. He shrugged on his coat, and made his way back out to the vestibule.

Which was when he heard Merlin saying urgently, “Come on, come on, the taxi’s waiting.”

Mr Pettigrew dashed back inside.

“Merlin, don’t rush me!” Arthur protested in reply.

And the two of them appeared, coming down the staircase dressed smartly in day clothes. Merlin was carrying several suitcases and bags, which Mr Pettigrew had to assume belonged to Arthur.

As soon as Arthur saw him, he cried, “Gaius!” and hurried down to stand before him, looking at him anxiously. “Are you all right? We were so worried!”

“I’m perfectly well, thank you,” he reassured Arthur.

“We _scoured_ London for you!”

“Mr Pendragon –”

But Arthur was too concerned to listen. “You weren’t at the roulette wheel all night, were you?”

“ _Please_ , Arthur, I’m trying to apologise.” He took a breath, and Arthur obligingly fell silent. “I expect you’ve heard by now that I am not a butler at all. I’m afraid… I found myself pretending.”

Arthur wasn’t hurt or horrified, but instead was looking back at Mr Pettigrew very fondly.

And Merlin was likewise. “Mr Pettigrew,” he gently said, “if that was you pretending, then you’re very good at it.”

“Gaius, ‘Sir Arthur’ is not going to judge anybody for pretending.”

And so everything – well, _almost_ everything was all right. Mr Pettigrew had noticed that Arthur was still wearing the silver ring on his left forefinger. While Merlin was distracted with the luggage, Mr Pettigrew took Arthur’s hand in his, and tapped his thumb–pad against the ring, asking a silent question.

Arthur smiled at him fondly. “It’s Ygraine’s – It’s my mother’s wedding band. I wear it now in her honour, as I did when I first put it on. It holds no other meaning. Not any more.”

“Then all is well,” Mr Pettigrew concluded.

“And,” Arthur continued, his smile growing, “I do believe Merlin has a ring for me to wear as well, just as soon as we have a moment in which to catch our breath. And _that_ will hold all the meaning in the world.”

A buzzer sounded, and Mr Pettigrew realised not for the first time.

“Come on, Arthur!” cried Merlin from the vestibule. Then he came back in to say apologetically, “This is us, I’m afraid, Mr Pettigrew. Boat won’t wait.”

“Are you really going?” Mr Pettigrew asked as he accompanied Arthur in Merlin’s wake.

“We are!” said Arthur, with excitement lighting his blue–sky eyes.

“To parts unknown on the royal yacht?”

“Yes.”

“How _wonderful_ ,” said Mr Pettigrew. He escorted them down in the lift, revelling in Arthur’s perfectly obvious happiness. The young man’s contentment and satisfaction shone from him as if his heart was the sun.

As they walked out of the building onto the pavement, Arthur asked, “But, Gaius, what will you do?”

“Oh, my dear friend, don’t you worry about me. Why, Miss Holt is holding a job for me this very morning, I expect.”

While Merlin and the driver dealt with the luggage, Mr Pettigrew held the taxi door open for Arthur, in what must be his last act of service.

But Arthur paused, and after a moment he turned to Mr Pettigrew, brimming with sorrow.

Mr Pettigrew smiled, and assured him, “I will never forget the day we spent together. Not _ever_.”

“Nor I,” Arthur quietly replied. They looked at each other for a long moment, knowing that their friendship – no matter how brief – had transformed both their lives. Finally Arthur cried, “Goodbye, Gaius! I do love you.” And he pushed in close to take Mr Pettigrew’s hands in his and press a kiss to Mr Pettigrew’s old cheek.

“Off with you,” Mr Pettigrew fondly chided. “Away!”

Arthur climbed inside and Mr Pettigrew shut the door for him. As the taxi drove off, Merlin and Arthur leaned out the window to wave farewell. “Once we’re settled, you must come and visit!” cried Merlin. “Actually – come and join us, if you can!”

Mr Pettigrew waved, his heart thudding with love and gratitude.

And then the taxi turned the corner, and was gone.

And Mr Pettigrew was left alone, early on a damp grey London morning.

♦


	11. 6:00 am

He went again to the waiting room at the Victoria railway station. Where else was there for him to go, after all? He sat sideways on one of the narrow benches, with his back to the newspaper hoardings that stridently cried their messages of doom. A uniformed employee briskly swept the marble floors. Mr Pettigrew ignored them all, and instead ran a curious finger–tip along the grain of the wooden seat beside him, contemplating all that had passed, all that had changed since last he was here. He found himself in much the same situation this morning as he had done yesterday morning, it was true. And yet Mr Pettigrew now knew himself to be a rather different man. He was more his own true self than he had ever been. And as he sat there under the station clocks striking the hour, he knew that something would come up. Thanks to Arthur, Mr Pettigrew had renewed his faith in himself and in the world. The rest would take care of itself.

As if the world was offering proof that it would in some way provide, Mr Pettigrew suddenly spied an apple sitting on the floor. It had had a bite taken out of it and then been abandoned, but Mr Pettigrew wasn’t ashamed to fix his hopes upon it. He got up, and made towards it, having attention left for nothing else. His stomach growled, urging him on. He advanced steadily, and –

And just as he had almost reached it, the man with the broom obliviously swept it up and moved on.

Alas, Mr Pettigrew found that he was, after all, too proud to chase after it or stop the fellow. He straightened, and turned to lean back against the black iron railings. And he even smiled to himself as he reflected on his present circumstances. It was quite funny, really. Well, he would just have to brush up his foraging techniques, that was all there was to it!

“Forgive the intrusion,” a man said quietly from the other side of the railings.

Mr Pettigrew started a little, and turned around to look at the so–called intruder – but Mr Pettigrew had already recognised that marvellous voice. Agravaine. It was Agravaine de Bois!

“I’m glad to see you’re safe,” Agravaine continued.

“Oh, yes. Quite safe.”

They looked at each other through the railings for a moment. And then it suddenly occurred to Mr Pettigrew why Agravaine might be there. All the things that Agravaine’s presence might imply. Mr Pettigrew felt himself become bashful, and almost despite himself he started slowly progressing further along the railings.

“Am I right in thinking you’re no longer employed, Mr Pettigrew?”

“Quite correct.”

“So you’re free?”

“Quite free.” He gathered his courage and asked, “Might you be looking for a butler?”

Gently yet firmly Agravaine replied, “No. Absolutely not.”

“Oh.”

Agravaine had reached the far end of the railings, and now stepped out around them to say very directly, “I’m looking for you.”

“Me?”

“I’ve been looking for you all night – and, I believe, all of my life. If you’ll have me…”

Mr Pettigrew was speechless. This was more than he could have possibly hoped for.

“A nod of the head will do me fine,” said Agravaine.

Well, he could manage that, though he suspected he was gaping a little and looking rather foolish. Mr Pettigrew nodded his head.

Agravaine smiled. “And I am, at a stroke, the happiest man in London!”

And, after all, it was as easy as that. Mr Pettigrew smiled in utter delight, the broadest smile he’d smiled for decades. The happiest smile he’d _ever_ smiled.

Agravaine offered his arm, and Mr Pettigrew took it. As they walked off, Agravaine donned his rather smart–looking fedora. “What a night,” he commented.

“What a morning!” Mr Pettigrew joyously declared.

“Have you eaten, my dear Gaius?”

“Oh, Agravaine, I have not eaten for a very, _very_ long time…”

“I know just the place.”

And they walked away through the station together, and after a moment Mr Pettigrew let his head sink to rest on Agravaine’s shoulder.

♦

Agravaine and Mr Pettigrew breakfasted at the Grosvenor hotel. By this time, Mr Pettigrew was almost too happy to be hungry, but he managed two bacon rashers exquisitely crisp and two eggs perfectly poached, with toast, finished off with more toast and marmalade, along with three cups of heavenly tea.

Agravaine didn’t eat much himself, but watched Mr Pettigrew as if the very sight of him was nourishment itself. They didn’t talk very much, but once Mr Pettigrew was drinking his third cup of tea, Agravaine said, “I must thank you again for all you’ve done for Arthur. You’ve achieved more in a day than his friends have in a year.”

Mr Pettigrew was both very pleased and honestly humbled. “What little I might have done was a pleasure. Your nephew and godson is a very fine young man.”

“You’ve been the saving of him,” Agravaine bluntly insisted.

“And he of me,” said Mr Pettigrew very quietly.

Agravaine acknowledged this, and left a respectful pause before continuing. “I don’t want to rush you in any way, Gaius. What would you like to do now? Shall I escort you home? Perhaps we could make plans to dine together this evening.”

“I have no home,” Mr Pettigrew confessed.

“Ah…” Agravaine didn’t sound surprised or disapproving. He actually sounded a little intrigued – and even rather satisfied.

“You must have me as I am, I’m afraid,” Mr Pettigrew said. “If you really want me. I own nothing but what you see.”

“You _need_ nothing else.”

Mr Pettigrew blushed a little. “You are flirting again, Mr de Bois.”

“No,” the man replied very simply. “You shall only have the truth from me.”

After a moment, without making any kind of show of it in this discreet yet public place, Agravaine slipped the gold signet ring off the little finger of his left hand, and slid it onto Mr Pettigrew’s finger instead. Mr Pettigrew gazed for a moment at the pale dent left in Agravaine’s flesh that indicated he had worn that ring his entire adult life. The engraving on the ring of a phoenix was no doubt the de Bois family crest.

The two men looked at each other for a long quiet moment. “There,” said Agravaine finally. “You understand me, do you not? In this matter, at least.”

“I hope and pray that I do,” said Mr Pettigrew.

Agravaine smiled a little. Then he leaned back in his chair, lighting a cigarette and making himself comfortable. “My home is yours, then, if you would like to share it with me.”

It took Mr Pettigrew a moment to find his voice. “I would like that very much.”

“I thought… I thought I would offer you the position of companion. If only for the sake of deflecting those who’d otherwise think us improper.”

Mr Pettigrew remained silent, hardly daring even now to believe that what he imagined was what Agravaine really intended.

“You’d have a generous salary, of course. And you can manage as much of the household and the budget as you like – or none of it, if you’d prefer. Not in return for anything, but simply so we can relate as equals.”

“That is exceedingly… chivalrous of you.”

“I’m well off, Gaius. There need be no stinting – beyond what this blasted war brings us – and you’ll have no questions from me about what you choose to spend. I know I can trust you.”

“I see.”

Agravaine took a long drag on his cigarette, and then sighed out the smoke. “Well, I have had all night to think about this and arrange matters to suit myself, and now I’m trying to get the practicalities out of the way so that we are free to concentrate on the finer things – but I am being a _damnably_ clumsy fool about it all.”

Mr Pettigrew laughed under his breath. “You’ll forgive me if I’m a little overwhelmed… It’s been such a very long time since I even thought about meeting someone like you.”

“It is the same for me,” Agravaine quietly agreed.

“You don’t have children, do you?”

Agravaine took a moment with that, before answering, “No, I don’t.”

“Forgive me,” said Mr Pettigrew. “That was very blunt of me. But I have had no luck with children in any of the establishments in which I’ve worked. Even when we take to each other, we always seem to be getting each other into trouble.”

Luckily Agravaine was smiling a little. “You make me wish that I did have some. If you would befriend them as you’ve befriended Arthur, I could want for nothing more.”

“You are very kind,” Mr Pettigrew murmured. Agravaine reached over to clasp his hand for a moment on the fine linen tablecloth. When he withdrew again, Mr Pettigrew said, “Shall I tell you what I would like most?”

“Please.”

“Of course I will be your companion, if you like, Mr de Bois. But what I have always wanted to be is a gentleman’s gentleman. No more and no less.”

“Then that is what you shall be,” said Agravaine.

“You are all my dreams come true.”

♦


	12. 7:00 am

Agravaine unlocked the door to an apartment in a small and obviously prestigious building. Mr Pettigrew was ushered inside, and he took two or three careful steps, eager and yet fearful to discover his new home. The vestibule opened up into a large reception room – and at first glance, it all seemed as rich and new as Arthur’s apartment, though decorated in a far more conservative style. There was a lot of dark wood, and subtle reds and forest greens, and sumptuous furniture.

“Let me show you around,” said Agravaine – and after a moment he began humming a tune. It was the bluesy waltz they had danced to that night.

When Mr Pettigrew looked at him, he saw that Agravaine was waiting to take Mr Pettigrew into his arms. He took that last step – and they were spinning about effortlessly, as if in a dream. A happy sigh escaped Mr Pettigrew’s lips.

“ _Mmm_ da–da–da, _Mmm_ da–da–da, _Mmm_ da–da–da, _Mmm_ da–da–da.” They spun through the room, with Agravaine leading the way. “This is the formal reception room,” he explained, his skilful feet never missing a beat. “I only use it when I entertain. Which isn’t often.”

“It’s rather wonderful,” said Mr Pettigrew.

“D’you think so? Not too stuffy? _Mmm_ da–da–da, _Mmm_ da–da–da.”

“It’s very masculine. Very proper.” He let a bar of hummed music go by, but reminded himself that Agravaine had said he trusted Mr Pettigrew. “We might liven it up a little, if you like.”

“I _do_ like. I’m sure you’ll know just what to do.”

“ _You’re_ the designer.”

“Oh, of socks!” Agravaine smiled at him, and his eyes glinted like the sun off the ocean on a fine summer’s day. “And you can probably help me with those, as well.”

They danced on into a rather lighter and airier room. “ _Mmm_ da–da–da, _Mmm_ da–da–da – _This_ is my favourite room – da–da–da.”

“It’s lovely!”

“The informal reception room. Really, I live here. _Mmm_ da–da–da, _Mmm_ da–da–da.”

“Just delightful…” Mr Pettigrew murmured, looking about him as they danced around a nicely–sized dining table, and then down towards an arrangement of sofas and armchairs. It was a south–facing room, decorated in creams and greens, and currently bathed in morning sunlight.

“I’m glad you like it!” Then they had danced out through another door and into a hallway. “ _Mmm_ da–da–da, _Mmm_ da–da–da. Kitchen and so on!” Agravaine announced as they passed a closed door. He ignored another closed door, but then nodded his head to indicate a room on the south side of the hall. “This was going to be my study, but it never gets used. I save my work for the office. The room can be yours, if you like.”

“Oh!” He hardly knew what to say, except: “Thank you.”

“The second bedroom, likewise. Though… _Mmm_ da–da–da, _Mmm_ da–da–da.” They were suddenly through into another darker room. A large bedroom with an enormous bed. It was decorated in similar ways to the formal reception room, except that it was warmer, somehow, and a little shabbier, and infinitely comfortable. “This is _my_ bedroom,” Agravaine announced. He spun Mr Pettigrew about once more, and then drew their dance to a close. “ _Mmm_ da da _da_ …”

Mr Pettigrew stepped back, and looked around him – trying to look at anything and everything other than the bed. He was a little breathless, and not from the dancing. “I see,” he said.

“I meant it,” said Agravaine quite solemnly. “I _don’t_ want to rush you. And the other bedroom is yours if you want it, for as long as you need. But I’d like it very much if you slept in here with me.”

“I’d –” he tried. His throat was dry. “I’d like that, too,” Mr Pettigrew managed to whisper.

With gentlemanly diffidence, Agravaine said, “Will I be your – That is, I mean to say – No doubt I shouldn’t enquire –”

“You will be my first lover. Yes.” He added, “I’m not afraid.”

“Oh my darling…” cried Agravaine low and intense – and a moment later he had swept Mr Pettigrew into his arms again, and they were kissing – Agravaine was kissing Mr Pettigrew just as passionately as Arthur’s lovers had kissed him – and Mr Pettigrew was dazedly reflecting that they didn’t exaggerate this in the motion pictures, they didn’t exaggerate at all, and he thought that Carole Lombard didn’t have it any better with Clark Gable than Mr Pettigrew had it with Agravaine de Bois.

Finally the kiss broke, and they stared at each other, and Agravaine’s eyes were a delicious storm. “I don’t want to rush you,” Agravaine whispered.

“You don’t need to worry, my love,” said Mr Pettigrew. “I’m ready.”

“Ah…” Agravaine sighed in satisfaction – then he stepped back and looked about him, as if hardly knowing where he was. He went to a chest of drawers, and pulled out – what appeared to be a set of white silk pyjamas. “There’s an ensuite bathroom here, which I use, but the main bathroom is back down the hall on the right. If you’d like to freshen up. Take your time,” he added, with his discreet and considerate tone at last fraying a little.

“I won’t keep you waiting long,” Mr Pettigrew reassured him. And he went to wash a little, and brush his teeth, and change into the pyjamas. Which were too large for him, of course, but he trusted Agravaine not to make him feel foolish.

♦

When he went back into the bedroom, he found Agravaine already in the bed, propped up a little on a few pillows, dressed in midnight–blue silk.

Mr Pettigrew walked around to the other side of the bed, and climbed in, and settled down on his back. Agravaine was there almost immediately, gathering him up into a strong embrace, and pressing warm down Mr Pettigrew’s side, leaning a little over him to kiss him, weighing him down against the mattress, holding him fast.

It was far far lovelier than the very loveliest dream he’d ever had… Mr Pettigrew had no time for self–consciousness, no room for doubts. Agravaine led him as beautifully in this as in a waltz. Wrapped up in silk, caught between the soft quilt and the firm mattress, warmed by Agravaine and cocooned by pleasure as if he were in a pure white cloud… this moment of perfection had always been, would always be. He would exist in this safe wondrous place for ever.

“I’m ready,” he murmured at last. “I’m ready now.”

“I know, my love,” came the loving response. “I know…”

The sun bloomed and welled within him, and then the wet heat burst through and poured from him, until he almost thought he would swoon. But he held fast to Agravaine, and felt his love’s own heat rubbing hard and then gloriously molten against his hip, and then Agravaine fell back with a cry, taking Gaius with him, and enfolding him, holding him near.

“I’m sorry,” Agravaine said after a while, once his breath had ceased to pant. “We’ve made rather a mess between us. I’ll get up in a moment and clean us up.”

“It’s perfectly all right,” said Gaius. He wouldn’t change anything at all about what they’d done or where they found themselves.

Agravaine cast him a slight glance. “Are you sure…? I thought you’d mind!”

“Absolutely certain. It’s fine.” He tried and failed to stifle a yawn, and then stretched, shifting against Agravaine, luxuriating in this sense of complete wellbeing. Another yawn ambushed him. “I’m sorry. Do excuse me.”

“I think we’re both too old to be up all night… Shall we sleep for a little while, do you think?”

“Perfect…” he murmured, already halfway there. Agravaine gently pushed Gaius over, rolled him onto his side, and then curled up around him from behind, binding him with warmth. There was one last thing Gaius had to be sure of, however. “When we wake,” he said, “can we make another mess?”

“Just as many as you like, my love,” said Agravaine.

“Excellent,” he murmured. And so the rest of their lives began…

[](http://th02.deviantart.net/fs71/PRE/f/2013/175/d/c/dcbae6b025814489f078509aecf69513-d6aefae.jpg)   
_An Honest Pair of Socks_

♦ ♦ ♦

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "Mr. Pettigrew Lives for a Day," a Paperlegends 2013 story by harlequin {fanart}](https://archiveofourown.org/works/909323) by [altocello](https://archiveofourown.org/users/altocello/pseuds/altocello)




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